


Nemesis

by Anonymous



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Also Lots of Crash Zoom, Eventual tomtord - Freeform, Illustrated, LOTS of violence, M/M, Monster!Tom, No Smut, Tom just wants to sleep
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-27 22:01:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 33,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8418712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: In which Tord inserts himself into Tom's life because he wants to make super soldiers using Tom's DNA and Tom just wants to sleep.





	1. Chapter 1

Tord was an evil genius. Ask anyone. Everyone would agree because chances are Tord would be right there too, holding a gun to their head. Every evil genius worth his legion of brainwashed minions had a nemesis, someone who stood for everything the villain fought against, a symbol of the world they were trying to destroy. For the most part, this applied to Tord’s nemesis: Tom.

Tom was symbolic of a world blind to it’s own corruption by choice, drowning it’s morality in vices like alcohol so they didn’t have to pay attention to everything that was wrong, they wouldn’t be obligated to change anything. Tom was content to be apathetic, drunk, and passive. Unlike most, he saw the world for what it was, the way Tord saw it, but, rather than be inspired to fight like Tord, Tom just gave up. It was like a slap to the face in Tord’s mind. Here’s one of the few people who got _it_ , one of the only people possibly capable of understanding Tord and yet he didn’t. Rather than fight the broken world, Tom fought Tord. So, yes, Tom was Tord’s nemesis.

Like any good nemesis, Tom was really due for some torment courtesy of his evil counterpart. That was why Tord was slowly creeping through the dark living room of Tom’s apartment. The future red leader knew for a fact that the ska-fond man was just coming off a long bender and wouldn’t be able to put up much of a fight. Tord wouldn’t be doing too much harm, he was just going to kidnap Tom for a while, look him in a dark room for a few days (with food) and let him go later. Harmless stuff, really. It wasn’t like Tord actually wanted to break Tom, he wanted Tom to see why they should fight the world instead of just declaring everything shit and getting drunk. The many times he tried to maybe kill Tom, well, he’d just gotten carried away. Besides, it’s not like Tom would actually die. He had a knack for getting out of life or death situations in one piece.

With an excited grin, Tord gently pushed the bedroom door open. He was ready to lug a large unconscious body out of the apartment complex and into the unmarked van he’d “borrowed”. Instead he was greeted to a scene of five figures in hazmat suits hauling an unconscious Tom out the window.

“What the fuck?” He hissed, hand immediately dropping to the handgun holstered at his side. Pointing the firearm at the intruders. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Team Bravo,” one of the figures suddenly shouted, “security is compromised. Secure the target, go go go!” Three of the hazard suit people jumped in front of Tord to block him while the last two pulled the drunken Brit out of the window.

Tord wasted no time in shooting his enemies through their torsos, not sparing a glance at the red leaking from the bodies as he rushed to the window. Down below, he spotted an unmarked van peel down the road at a high speed. Gritting his teeth, Tord ripped his cellphone from his pocket and dialed Paul. The henchman picked up on the first ring and the future red leader immediately spat into the receiver.

“Helicopter. My location. Now.” Just over a minute later a red chopper swept up next to the window. The side door slid open and Tord was greeted by his top two henchman in matching pajamas. He leapt into the copter and, with a quick nod to the men, they took off in the direction the van went. It did not take long for them to catch up with the vehicle. Tord helped himself to the copter’s weapons stash, trading his small firearm for something large and semiautomatic. Leaning out of the vehicle, Tord aimed his gun on the tires of the vehicle before letting bullets fly. The projectiles bounced off of the van, causing Tord to hiss under his breath. Suddenly the back doors of the van swung open, revealing more figures in hazmat suits armed with weapons flinging bullets back at the aircraft. The red leader to be threw himself back into the cockpit with a curse.

“Who are these guys?” Paul asked over his shoulder while pivoting the copter around and over street lamps and bullets.

Tord paused for a long moment, his eyebrows furrowing as he glanced back at the van. “Don’t know,” he huffed out and turned back to the small armory. “But they crossed me, so we’re going to make them regret it.” At that he slid a pin from a grenade and tossed it at the van with his robotic arm. A bullet grazed the bright red metal while the small bomb sailed through the air causing the Norski man to grin. Times like this he was almost glad for his prosthetic. He had half a mind to thank Tom- shit. Tom. Tord cursed and watched as the grenade blew and flipped the van over, causing it to skid down the road on it’s side. He signalled to his men to fly in closer so he could take out the hazmats while they’re disoriented.

Just as they reached a height where Tord could jump down, a black SUV drifted around the corner and screeched to a stop next to the van. Men in suits piled out of the truck in a ridiculous number, as though the vehicle were some overly intimidating, probably bulletproof clown car. Half pointed guns at the copter while the rest ducked into the van. Tord growled at the sight of a hazmatted individual kicked out of the vehicle before getting shot in the head by a man in a suit. Another suited person hauled Tom’s still snoozing form over his shoulder and into the back SUV.

“Isn’t that-” Patryck murmured at the sight of the alcoholic. He and Paul shared a silent glance before returning their attention to the matter at hand. “Dibs on being Luigi,” he said as he picked up a gun.

“Why do you get to be Luigi? And what does that make me?” Paul complained as he brought the helicopter into a position better for the fire fight they were about to engage in.

“You’re Yoshi, the transportation,” Patryck responded with a grin as he joined his leader by the door.

“Yeah, well, Yoshi and Luigi don’t have se-”

“I’m not Mario,” Tord interrupted, his eyes focused on the SUV down below.

“Oh, that’s true,” Patryck agreed, checking his magazine. “You’re probably Bowser.”

Throwing the door open once more, the two began firing at the men in suits. Before the fire fight even got into the full swing of things, another van full of people in hazmat suits arrived, immediately firing bullets at both parties. Tord growled while he mowed down enemies with his gun. _Why were so many people after Tom? How many people did the Brit piss off?_ And, were he being completely honest, Tord might’ve been feeling ever so slightly jealous. After all, Tom was Tord’s one true nemesis, but was he Tom’s?

On the suits’ side, there seemed to be a commotion coming from inside the SUV. Another horde of suited men pulled from the vehicle, scrambling to get away from it.

The gunfire paused as a single figure hobbled out of the SUV, lazily scratching at his exposed stomach. Glaring at the faceless groups of fighters surrounding him, the man turned away and leisurely ambled down the street back towards his apartment complex. Paul dragged the copter up and out of the range of the fighting so they could observe out of harm’s way. Tord reached for the fixed rope, ready to rappel down and literally sweep Tom off his feet and out of danger. His metal fingers gripped the tightly woven cable when one of the suits rushed towards the drowsy man in a blue hoodie. Just as the man was about to reach Tom, the Brit turned around to glare directly into his eyes. Tord stepped away from the rope, realizing his help may not be needed, and moved to get a better view of what was happening. The suit paused at the unexpected confrontation for a moment before tackling Tom to the ground. The future red leader growled- had Tom not had a plan after all? Was he just a drunken idiot? Marching back to the rope, Tord was startled out of his rage by a loud roar.

He turned his head just in time to watch the suit fly past their copter. _What?_

Where Tom had been was a large, black and purple mass that resembled monsters from children's’ nightmares. For a moment, Tord was consumed by a panic that Tom had been eaten alive by this monstrosity. However, that feeling faded the moment he saw the single hollow void of an eye socket sweep over the impromptu battlefield. When did _that_ happen?

Both the hazmats and suits repositioned to fight Tom while Tord signalled the copter to pull up higher. This would be fun to watch.

Bullets were sprayed errantly towards the hulking beast. Ignoring the metal ammunition ricocheting off his body, Tom lurched forward, easily lifting the black SUV in his claws and tossing it the short distance or top of his would be kidnappers. The ensuing explosion and a cloud of kicked up dust obscured the monster from the view of those who managed to get out of the vehicle’s way. As such, only Tord and his two minions were treated to the sight of the Beast shrinking down to a size just a bit larger than human Tom- by like a meter or two. While mostly humanoid, this form of Tom did retain some of his more monstrous features, horns and giant discolored lower arms and claws amongst other things. If Tord was to believe what he saw, then a small, somewhat stubby tail was amongst those features.

Taking advantage of his new size, Tom slipped around his impromptu smoke screen to come up behind his pursuers. Diving head first into their masses, the Brit rammed his body into their backs, plowing down a third of his enemies in one fluid motion. When they began firing upon him again, he brought his claws in front of his body to shield himself in a way that laughably reminded Tord of Wonder Woman. Prowling towards a group of hazmats, Tom swept one of his large arms through their torsos, knocking them all to the ground before pounding on top of them with a sickening crack sounding over the gunfire. He slowly turned his head to glare at his remaining enemies, red light flashing momentarily in his eye sockets.

“Boss,” Patryck said suddenly with a teasing lilt to his voice. “You’re drooling.” Tord averted his eyes for a moment to glare at his henchman and absently wipe at the wetness slipping down his chin. Having regained his dignity, the communist sported a manic grin.

“That’s my arch nemesis,” Tord said proudly, his fingers itching to wrap around a gun so he could go head to head with Tom. By the time he’d turned back to watch, everyone was down, the street bathed in flames, and a completely human Tom was ambling away towards a liquor store.

The future red leader dismissed his men before rappelling down to the ground. He watched the chopper fly away before sitting down on the curb outside the liquor store. Fifteen minutes later, he heard the chime of the door opening. He turned around slowly, smirking and feeling like a Bond villain, when he laid his eyes on a familiar drunken face.

“Hello, old friend.”

Tom let out a groan of annoyance.


	2. Okay, but I wasn't "really" trying to kill you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stalin just wants a good night kiss.

Tom was tired. It’d be great if he could just sleep for once in his life but _no_. Government agencies and secret organizations and cults and scientific communities and militia groups and radical insurgencies and conspiracy theorists and supernatural investigators and paranormal themed vloggers- everyone wanted a piece of Tom. Being drunk, Tom found, was the next best thing to sleep. Which is why, after being rudely awoken by yet another kidnapping attempt and then seriously injuring (to the point of death for some of) his kidnappers, Tom immediately set to attempting to get hammered. Of course, being drunk doesn’t mean he’s suddenly not tired.

Which was why Tom did not have the energy to deal with the apparently _not_ dead communist sitting in front of him. It was great to know he didn’t murder someone whom he had almost maybe considered a friend once. That did not mean he actually _wanted_ to see the Norski. Especially since half of his body was scarred to hell, probably courtesy of Tom.

“You look like shit,” he slurred before he could stop himself. _Wow, alcohol. Thanks. And here Tom thought the brain depressant had his back_.

“Well,” Tord responded, oddly humorful, “we can’t all be bulletproof.”

Tom huffed out a single growl before turning away to stumble down the road. “’Dunno what yer talkin’ bout,” he muttered, more than ready to never interact with the man behind him again.

Tord didn’t seem to share the sentiment. He quickly fell into step with the drunkard and put on his most charming smile. “C’mon now, tell me about this. Since when did that start happening? How’d it occur? How likely would it be to replicate it because power like that in every soldier would be-“

“You sound like a villain in a Captain America movie,” Tom ground out, shoving his fists deep into his tattered hoodie’s pockets.

“Just talk to me, old friend,” Tord twisted his voice into something friendly and sincere.

Tom barked out a bitter laugh. “Could you not hear from inside that giant robot or were you too distracted by the harpoon flying at you?” Tord’s only response was a scowl. “I’m not your friend,” Tom reminded the Norski.

“Sure, sure,” the scarred man waved off the statement leisurely. “Just tell me how you came to possess this power and I’ll leave you alone to continue poisoning yourself to death with alcohol.”

A small part of Tom smiled wryly at Tord’s use of the word _possess_. The rest of him just scoffed at the man attempting to be a super villain. He chose not to answer, trying to speed past the man so he could just collapse inside his apartment and try to sleep. After tonight’s incident, he’d probably be left alone for a solid 24 hours. He just wanted to make the most of that and he’d only be able to do that if Tord wasn’t present.

“I assume this happened after my visit, otherwise I doubt you’d have still used that harpoon gun. That _thing_ would fare far better against a giant robot, nine times out of ten.” The Brit just brought his flask to his lips and chugged with abandon. “I probably should’ve kept better surveillance on you. Oh well, I’ll just review the recorded footage and I should be able to figure it out.”

Tom sputtered, losing the gulp of liquid he’d been taking to the open air. “What?! What footage?!”

Tord gave the drunkard a severely unimpressed look. “Yeah, like I’m not going to keep surveillance on the group of people with the most knowledge about me, not to mention the ones that caused me to lose my arm.”

Pausing, Tom didn’t bother to disguise his stare directed at Tord’s arms. “Wow,” he remarked dryly, “must suck to have gone from having three arms to only two.” Tord snarled and pulled the sleeve of his red hoodie back to reveal his prosthetic limb. “Oh, Tom murmured. Taking a long swig from his flask, he looked the revolutionary in the eyes for the first time since he spotted him on the curb. “Welp, I guess we’re even for all those times you tried to kill me.”

Tord furrowed his eyebrows and gaped. “What?! I did not try to kill you-“

“So I just imagined all those bullets fired from your robot flying at me and I guess the walls torn apart behind me were just a coincidence,” Tom’s voice exuded nonchalance.

“That was one time!” Tord protested.

“You hit me with a car,” the Brit pointed out passively.

“But not that hard!” The communist threw his arms up in the air in frustration. “I wasn’t even going 10 kilometers per hour!”

“I was a little too busy being crushed by a car to notice how fast it was going,” Tom remarked dryly.

“Still, it hardly counts as an attempt on your life.” It almost looked like the part-metal man was pouting.

“You’ve tried to kill me so many times, it could be organized into one of those quirky montage YouTube videos that Edd likes watching. I’m too drunk and tired to remember every incident, but you’ve definitely tried plenty.” Tom noted with a long, drawn out yawn.

“Except you’re still alive,” Tord responded defiantly. “If I wanted you dead, I would’ve tried harder. I know you’ve got this nasty habit of surviving things.” Tom merely hummed in reply, swallowing down another mouthful of burning warmth and toxins. “We’ve all survived a lot of shit. I’d hardly think you’d get done in by a car.”

“Thanks for that _really_ heartfelt compliment, Stalin,” Tom mumbled sarcastically, “but we’re at my apartment now so how about we part ways. Forgive me if I don’t ask for a second date.” Stumbling towards the building, he heard his old roommate laugh.

“What? No goodnight kiss?” Tord asked teasingly.

The man in the blue hoodie flipped him the bird over his shoulder, not bothering to grumble back an answer. At least this should be the last they see of each other for a long time.


	3. What Part of GTFO of My Life Did You Not Understand?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of Matt's love interests have careers in Wrestlemania.

Except, oh wait- no it wasn’t.

Two days later, Tom woke up to his usually empty apartment only to find a communist cyborg lounging casually on his couch. Having just stumbled out of his bedroom, Tom took one look at the man in red on his couch before he marched right out and into Edd’s apartment.

He didn’t tell the brunette about his visitor. Edd had been hit the hardest by Tord’s betrayal, which wasn’t surprising since Tom hadn’t been Tord’s friend to begin with and Matt largely forgot Tord existed once everything settled down again. Tom didn’t want to witness the happy go lucky artist’s reunion with Tord. In fact, he was more than happy to actively prevent it from ever happening. Tom actually gave a shit about Edd’s general wellbeing, even if he didn’t often express the sentiment aloud.

“Hey,” he mumbled as he rubbed absently at his eye sockets. “Mind if I just chill with you in here for a few hours?” Plus, he knew Tord wouldn’t dare show himself around Edd.

“Why? It’s not like there’s a Doctor Why marathon on,” Edd teased.

“How will we survive?” Tom remarked dryly as he settled onto Edd’s couch.

“You mean you don’t want to spend four straight hours getting increasingly frustrated about ridiculous plot conveniences?” The brunette asked in mock bewilderment.

“Not unless I’m drunk,” the eyeless man declared. Edd frowned, not fond of being reminded of his friend’s substance abuse. The artist had already lost one friend to his vices. He didn’t want to lose another.

“I’m working on this animation; any chance you could compose something for me? If it turns out well, I’m thinking of submitting it to this local digital media contest,” Edd asked while his eyes darted to his computer.

Tom glared at his apartment through the wall before sighing dejectedly. “Sure, just let me go get Susan.” The brunette smiled as his friend left the room. Music was a healthier way of losing oneself than alcohol. Now alone, Edd furrowed his eyebrows. Tom had never been the cheeriest of people but the guilt of killing _him_ had really brought the once Jehovah’s witness into a severe depressive slump. He was always claiming to be exhausted and only seemed interested in sleep lately. There were times where he would disappear for hours, sometimes even days, before turning up again drunk off his ass and looking like he’d been kidnapped by a cartel and had just escaped by the skin of his teeth. This was probably the first time in a few months he’d been the one to initiate social interaction and not Edd. Hopefully, this meant he was starting to work through his guilt.

Tom stormed back into his apartment, pointedly ignoring the figure on his couch, and headed straight to his room. Pulling Susan from her multi-locked safe, he tried to exit just as quickly.

“I went through that footage, you know, the surveillance,” Tord called out the moment the opened the moment Tom opened his bedroom door. “Apparently last night’s incident was not a one time thing.”

Tom let out a dry, bitter laugh. “No shit,” he answered. Deciding that the conversation was over, the Brit headed for the door.

“But it didn’t show me how you got these… powers,” Tord continued, disagreeing. “In fact, you’ve been caught in kidnapping attempts since you moved in. So either the kidnappings started prior to gaining your powers, which is ridiculous because why else could they possibly want to kidnap you, or you had your powers during our fight. Mind filling in the blanks?”

“Goodbye,” Tom spat, slamming the front door behind him. He tried and failed to smooth the frustration out of his features before he returned to Edd’s.

“You look like you just ran into a group of Christmas Carolers,” the brunette artist noted, eyebrows raising at the sight of Tom’s scowl.

“That would be infinitely better than what’s actually happening,” the alcoholic huffed, slouching onto Edd’s couch and cradling Susan in his arms. “Now tell me about your animation.”

The two worked for a few hours and just hanging out with Edd and making a story of art and music helped Tom forget it all: his alcoholism, the kidnapping, the sleep deprivation, the guilt of killing so many, the survivor in his living room. Tom got to be just a guy for a while. Matt dropped by to share a barely coherent story about one of his dates and Tom found he genuinely enjoyed the tale, in spite of the obvious exaggerations.

“So she told me that she’d never believed in soulmates until she met me and that I’m beautiful and then another woman tried to ask me on a date so they fought over me until one hit the other over the head with a chair,” Matt continued, spewing forth a ridiculous story. Maybe saying Tom was _enjoying_ the story was a stretch, but the point remained. This was nice. Tom was content.

The fool let his guard down. The moment he exited Edd’s apartment into the dark, deserted corridor, Tom noticed something was off. Huffing out a low growl, the man let a red light fill his eyesockets, letting him see in the dark. He was greeted by the sight of a horde of projectiles a meter away from him.

Damn.

With his chest full of comically stereotypical sleeping darts, Tom let out a groan. Thank Darwin he was a freelancer. If he had a 9 to 5, he’d have lost his job ages ago. This thought comforted him as he slammed to the ground and faded out of consciousness.

-

Tord may or may not have been pouting. He’d wasted an entire day waiting on Tom’s couch for answers, clues, a single slip-up -- anything. The sun had come and gone and Tom had yet to return. The Norski half expected the Brit was out bar hopping. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he’d pulled up the app that tapped into the tracking microchips Tord had “accidentally” left in each of Tom’s hoodies.

He watched as the blinking icon sped over buildings and parks, completely ignoring roadways and traffic. At the speed it was going, the Brit could only be airborne. Tom wasn’t exactly the type to go flying for leisure.

Cursing, Tord leapt off the couch and stalked over to the door. He’d stumbled upon an amazing recipe for super soldiers and he wasn’t about to let someone else get to it first. Also- he could hardly let someone be a better nemesis to Tom then he was. Apparently, Tord hadn’t been proactive enough in tormenting the Brit and his rivals had gotten a leg up on him.

Tord would prove he was Tom’s one true arch nemesis. He just had to save the man first.

“Paul, Pat,” Tord spoke after hitting speed dial. “I need you in the air. We’ve got a princess to save.”


	4. Our Princess is Kind of Taking a Nap Right Now, So If You Could Come Back to the Castle Later That'd Be Great

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom finally gets some sleep.  
> Wouldn't you know, he's a somnpugilist.

Tom awoke to a pounding headache and the darkness of the insides of his eyelids. The drowsy reluctance of his body to function at all told him he’d either gotten spectacularly drunk or he’d been ambushed with tranquilizers again. Groaning, Tom tried to bury his face into the flat, cold metal floor he was apparently lying on. Not as comfy as he had hoped. His shoulder was shaken roughly, again actually, as he realized that was what had woken him up in the first place.

It was right about then that Tom’s hearing kicked in and he was abruptly treated to some loud as fuck gunfire. Lovely. This was then followed by other noises that Tom gradually came to recognize as words.

“-off your ass, idiot. We don’t have all day.” The Brit was pretty sure he knew whose accent that was. Only the improbability of the accent’s owner being _here_ really threw him. Unless he was the one who kidnapped Tom, which the possessed man would not have put past him.

“Fuck you,” Tom managed to spit out around his unresponsive tongue. He felt a hand settle in his hair before using it to, rather gently, pull his face from the floor. The alcoholic let his eye sockets slip open just barely. Crouched in front of him was Tord. Half his red hoodie had been shredded or burned, revealing the metal arm and undershirt underneath and that stupid hat was perched on his head. He’d been slightly injured but was obviously fine. His smirk grew at the sight of the slowly waking Tom.

“Classic, stupid Tom,” he said with a wide grin. When it failed to elicit a satisfyingly annoyed response from the eyeless man, the communist frowned. “Did they pump you full of drugs or what?”

Tom’s mind was too fuzzy to offer an intelligible response. He muttered a soft grumble before his eyelids slid shut once more. Tord calling his name was the last thing he heard before blacking out again.

At some point in time, Tom briefly opened his eyes. He was peering out over Tord’s shoulder, the Norski apparently having thrown the drugged kidnappee on his back. Tord had a gun in his hand and was shooting into a crowd of blurry figures. Tom, exhausted, let his face fall into the plush remnants of Tord’s hoodie and drift back to sleep.  
Tom had needed all of this sleep. It was great.

Or it was until he felt his body crash onto a cold, hard surface. Blinking awake, Tom lazily slid his gaze slowly about the space. Tord and Patryck were both there, crouched behind _something_... a desk maybe? Both were looking worse for wear. The red leader may have a few extra holes in him from the looks of it. Bullets were flying over their heads. Oh. They were pinned down, cornered, probably about to die. Tom should probably do something about that.

Propping himself up on his arms, the Brit let the energy he kept bottled in his chest rush into his veins. His bones creaked and ached as his muscles rebuilt themselves. A low groan half-way mixed with a grol slipped from his lips.

Tord, having heard the noise, glanced over at the damsel in distress. The moment he made eye contact with the glowing red hollows, he felt his intestines dance viciously. By the time the Norski remembered how to breathe, Tom was fully transformed and on his feet. His fanged jaw dropped open wide and Tord braced himself for a roar. Instead, the monster yawned sleepily. Tord found it infuriatingly adorable. Even as he was pelted with bullets, Tom leisurely ambled forward before lazily swatting away their pursuers. The soldiers slammed into walls with agonized shouts accompanied by the loud snapping of bones. Their tormentor absently attempted to rub the sleep out of his eye socket while his stubby tail swung casually from side to side. Another unit tried to enter the room but Tom simply let himself flop down on top of them, crushing them beneath his massive form. While the large creature drowsily rolled back and forth over his prey, Tord and Patryck shared a glance.

“Can we keep him?” Pat asked cheekily. “I’ve always thought you could use a puppy. The fact that he’s a huge, killer puppy just makes it even better.”

“Very funny,” Tord remarked. There was a loud crash as Tom busted through a wall, concrete raining down on more enemies. “Of course we’re keeping him,” the communist answered matter of factly. “I need him to make super soldiers.”

Patryck raised a single eyebrow, gaze probing Tord’s mind. “I’m sure. I bet he hasn’t left you alone in his apartment once, too worried about you getting your hands on his DNA and vanishing into the night. Which is why you’ve yet to do exactly that.” Tord remained silent. “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought. You had to spend all day in his apartment because he wasn’t letting you take samples, not because you just sat on his couch and waited for him to talk to you,” the sarcasm in Patryck’s voice was rising. “It’s not like you just want to spend time with him or something.”

“Of course not!” Tord spat indignantly.

“Yeah,” Patryck responded mockingly with a grin. Where did he get away with being so disrespectful to his leader? “Ew, gross. Crushes are icky.”

Whatever death threat Tord was about to level to one of his most loyal soldiers was abandoned at the sound of an explosion. “We should go,” the Norski commanded.

“Yup,” the soldier agreed, “we need to make sure the new puppy is still doing okay. Don’t want to leave _that_ unsupervised.” Tord punched Patryck in the arm and walked away.

They found Tom easily, what with the fiery destruction and rubble he’d left in his wake. The compound he’d been taken to was in shambles with half of the building collapsed into piles of ruin. Multiple armored vehicles were overturned and abandoned around the giant crater next to the building. The scene the two were witnessing was clearly the aftermath of the battle as there were no signs of any combatants and the only sounds permeating the stiff atmosphere were the crackling of flames and some light snores. Following the soft snoozing, the rebels came to a tank with the turret atop it yanked off and chucked a fair distance away. The insides of the vehicle were gutted, heavy equipment dumped in a pile next to the tank to make space for something else. In the new hollow of the tank lay a single person, comfortably sprawled against the claw-torn surface and sleeping.

 _He should not be this adorable_.

“He should not be this adorable,” Patryck remarked loudly. Tord immediately turned his to glare at his comrade in a mixture of anger and shock. Did Patryck- but he and Paul- The soldier stared back at his leader with raised eyebrows. “What? Did I guess right? Or were you thinking something more along the lines of _my waifu is a goddamn killing machine and I cannot believe how turned on I am_? What about _time to awaken my darling with true love’s kiss_?” The red leader scowled. Patryck was lucky he was such a loyal and valuable asset to Tord’s plans. Otherwise-

“Just shut up and help me get this idiot back to his apartment.”


	5. Well Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edd breathes fire all over this Prince Charming.

The copter set down in the middle of street in front of Tom’s apartment complex. Tord hopped down with the Brit sprawled across his back. The snoozing man’s arms hung loosely over Tord’s shoulders with his fingertips brushing lightly over the Norski’s chest. Which _no, Patryck, the touch did not make a bunch of butterflies dance in his stomach._ That’s _dumb_. Shut up.

All in all, everything seemed fine and under control. Tom was okay. No one else was going to be making any super soldiers. Tord could still take over the world. _Tom was okay_. Everything was good.

Until it wasn’t. 

Tord was almost at Tom’s door when the door adjacent to it swung open. _Edd_. The brunette popped his head into the hallway and spotted the unconscious Tom on someone’s back. Tord was immensely grateful that the sleeping Brit’s body blocked Edd from seeing the Norski. He wasn’t ready to deal with that can of worms. Part of why he was so good at being an emotionless killer was that, _wow_ , he bottled up his emotions. What seeing and interacting with Edd would invite him to feel- thanks, but _no thanks_.

“Oh geeze,” the voice called and Tord flinched. _Weakness!_ his mind screamed. “Sorry about him. He drinks a lot, or well, yeah, you probably figured that out.” The familiar awkward laughter was adding more strain to the cage the red leader had built around his emotions, which was already starting to buckle under the weight of _everything Tom_. He didn’t need this. “I can take him. You might not even be able to get into his apartment ‘cause he forgets his keys sometimes. Or loses them. Or throws them into toilets and tries to flush them. Honestly, he needs a new set of keys every other week. We’ve got the locksmith on speed dial.”

Coughing, Tord tried to disguise his voice. “I’ve got his keys, it’s fine.”

With a frown, the brunette stepped forward. “I insist. He’s my friend. I’d really rather be able to keep an eye on him, watch for signs of alcohol poisoning, you know?”

Tord considered dropping Tom to the ground and bolting. He tried to think of any argument as to why he should be able to dump the Brit in his own apartment without causing Edd to worry but nothing came to mind. He should just run. Run fast and far and-

He should’ve been paying more attention. A startled gasp cut through his thoughts. He heard a loud scramble from the artist’s apartment before Edd re-entered his field of vision holding a- a _sword_?

“Get away from him!” The brunette declared with emotion raging in his voice. _Terror, Anger, Concern_. “I swear if you hurt him in any way!” The artist’s grip on the sword was shaky and uncertain but the look in his eyes was clear as day. Edd wanted Tord as far away as possible from Tom. Tord gently slid Tom off his back before laying him on the ground and backing away with his hands in the air. Edd dropped to his knees at the Brit’s side in a split second, eyes raking over his body looking for wounds, poison, any sign of injury.

“He’ll be fine,” Tord called out, several meters away and next to the exit, ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Edd didn’t respond. The brunette heaved his friend into his arms and carefully carried him back to his apartment.

Tord didn’t have a heart. He felt nothing. The rebel repeated those words endlessly to himself, trying to talk over the hollow feeling in his gut.

-

Tom could smell a large mug of coffee, warm steam wafting from nearby to hit him in the face. Heat coated his face like a blanket, simulating a blush, while the Brit slowly inhaled the deep scent. He was very comfortable where he was, half steeped in the cozy world of the unconscious, all darkness and warmth, but the promise of coffee was enough to draw a low groan from his throat. Time to wake up. Rolling over, the eyeless man took stock of his body. However long he’d been asleep, he’d really needed it. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this good. No aches, pains, pounding migraines, dry mouths, vomit singed tongues, creaking joints, tired muscles, devastating guilt, or self disgust.

Tom felt amazing.

He let his eyelids fall open easily, for once not overwhelmed by the sudden presence of light. _Oh._ The ceiling above him was not his own. It was Edd’s living room. He was on Edd’s couch. Quickly looking around the room, his sight fell on the brunette.

Tom felt terrible.

Whatever the artist had seen last night, it had shaken him to his core. His hair was a mess, his usual bedhead pulled into a raucous state of disarray from entirely too much anxious tugging on the chocolate strands. His form was hunched, every muscle visibly strained as Edd fought to stop himself from doing _something_. The brunette was pacing back and forth across the living room from Tom, worrying his lip with his teeth so thoroughly that blood slipped between the cracked skin.

What in the hell had Tom done last night to worry his friend so much? What in the hell had Tom done last night to begin with? Furrowing his eyebrows, the man tried to remember anything from the past twenty four hours. He was drawing a blank. It didn’t matter. Right now he needed to run damage control on his closest friend. He just needed to make sure Edd was okay.

“Edd?” His voice croaked, as though he hadn’t spoken in a while. That warm cup of coffee on the coffee table in front of him looked even better now.

“Tom!”The moment the brunette heard his friend’s voice he jumped. In the span of a split second, he spun to look at Tom with wide eyes before throwing himself across the room at the man in the blue hoodie. Gathering Tom’s face in his hands, Edd tugged Tom’s head this way and that looking for injuries. “Are you okay? He didn’t hurt you did he? Where were you? Did he put some evil microchip in you or something? Are there any weird bumps? Please tell me you’re okay!”

“Edd,” Tom said softly even as his head was twisted almost 180 degrees so the brunette could look at the nape of his neck for some kind of spy microchip, “I’m fine. What’s wrong?”

Edd froze, his wide eyes still focused on the back of Tom’s neck. “Do you,” he paused and ran his tongue over his bleeding bottom lip while trying to find the right words. “Do you remember what happened last night?”

Tom gently pulled Edd’s hands off his shoulders to turn back to the brunette and look him in the eyes. “I remember leaving your apartment and then,” his mind drifted to the darts flying at him but only blackness followed that. “Then nothing,” he said with a shrug. Edd’s fists tightened and he bit down on his lip again, causing a new surge of blood from the torn apart flesh. “Your lip,” the ska-fan noted out loud, before furrowing his eyebrows. “Edd, what happened?”

Running a hand over his own face, Edd pushed himself off the couch. “Nothing,” he said as he turned away from Tom. “Nothing you need to worry about. Drink some coffee.” The artist left the room and Tom sat in silence.

The thing about Tom was that Tom was hardly good at following orders. The brief stint the men had in the military had proved that quite well. So while the Brit was plenty inclined to chug the cup of coffee in one go, which he did (mentally thanking his modified body’s resilience to the scalding heat), he was less so tempted to ignore whatever was going on with Edd. The other thing about Tom was that he was terrible at being nosy. Too frequently in life he didn’t care enough to pry information from friends and, as such, he’d never quite learned how. The Brit was clueless as to how to get his artist friend to open up.

On the bright side, Tom knew someone just annoying enough to get Edd to spill the beans anyway. All it took was a quick stop by Matt’s apartment and a mention of a secret Edd was keeping about last night with some not so subtle suggestions that it had entailed a pretty lady asking the brunette about Matt before the redhead was hounding Edd constantly, demanding to know what happened last night. In spite of how incredibly annoying Matt could prove himself to be at times, the brunette didn’t crack under the pressure. If anything, Matt’s continual energy seemed to revive the artist slightly.

“Let’s have a movie marathon in my apartment tonight,” Edd decided several hours later, sharing a guarded smile with both of his friends. The redhead looked like he was about to object when Edd quickly granted him with the right to choose what they’d be watching. With Matt satisfied, the brunette turned his imploring gaze to Tom and simply uttered the command. “Stay.”

After Edd had seemed so thoroughly wrecked that morning, Tom couldn’t possibly say no. Whatever had happened yesterday with the black out, Tom had made it out alive so he could likely count on a little downtime from all the kidnapping attempts. So long as his friends were not put in danger because of him, the ex-Jehova’s witness had no problem lounging on a couch and complaining about crappy movies with them.


	6. Pep Talks and Unloading Glocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patryck wants a sex scene.

Paul and Patrick stood outside the large double doors leading to their leader’s chambers. (Only Pat referred to the glorified office as such and he did so with a twist of humor each time.) The muffled pounding bass leaking out from underneath the doors had the duo exchanging wary glances. Paul huffed a long sigh, pinching the skin between his thick eyebrows. With the other hand, he gestured towards the doors.

“And how exactly do you propose you fix this?” He asked.

Pat raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Me? Why do I have fix him? Why can’t you?”

“Because I give too few shits,” Paul replied as he dug in his pockets for cigarettes. “But we still need a leader if we’re actually going to achieve world domination. So long as he’s distracted by his crush, the revolution is at a standstill. So he either needs to get the guy or get over it so the rest of us can get back to work.” He pulled a cancer stick from his coat with a smile.

“Okay.” Pat said slowly. “So why don’t you just tell him that?”

“Because it’s cuter when you have to do this stuff,” Paul responded in a blase tone. Patryck flushed, slapping a hand on his lover’s bicep before marching into Tord’s office. Paul chuckled and turned away, content to let the other man handle the situation. Inside the office, Patryck blinked at the loud calls of Rasputin blaring from the speaker set directly next to the ear of Tord, lying face down on his desk. Puffing out his chest. The man coughed loudly and bit back a grin when his leader popped up in surprise. Tord quickly composed himself, arching a single eyebrow at his subordinate.

“So,” Patryck murmured, tugging a hand through his brown hair. “We need to talk.” Tord stayed silent, waiting for the man to continue. “You’re moping.”

“I’m not!” Tord shot back immediately, the force of his recoil at the statement almost knocking him out of his chair. He forced himself not to dwell on how similar this felt to when he’d been accused of being addicted to hentai as a teen.

Patryck only shot a disbelieving glance at the speaker still spewing Tord’s comfort music, before the red leader quickly turned the sound off. “So you’ve got a crush,” Pat spoke into the silence, ignoring the hiss from his boss, “so what? It’s not like you wanting things is _new_. You want more weapons. You want world domination. You want a public access 24 hour hentai channel on television. And you’re proud of all of these things. Why should this be any different?”

“Because he’s my _nemesis_! I’m supposed to _hate_ him! To want to destroy him! He stands for everything I hate- the systematic apathy regarding everything that’s wrong with the world!” Tord almost shouted.

“Exactly!” Pat beamed. “It's one thing to just destroy the symbol of apathy- but if you can claim him, own him, and change him? Talk about _utter domination_.” He could tell by Tord’s suddenly stiff posture that he’d caught the man’s interest. “Oh, yeah. Complete and utter subjugation of your most _hated_ rival. Tom, on his knees, at your feet, begging for-”

“As he should be,” Tord muttered with a growing grin.

“Now that you’re feeling more inspired,” Pat said as he inched towards the double doors, “I’m just going to leave you with one last thing to think about.” His leader tilted his head curiously. “Just a friendly reminder, if you will.” With half his body already out the door, Patryck smirked. “Tom has no gag reflex.” With that the man ducked out of the room, content to leave his boss to stew with that thought.

In the hallway he spotted Paul, casually leaning against the wall. “You got him motivated to pursue his princess?” Pat grinned widely, nodding. “Good because someone’s raiding the castle.” He pushed off the wall and strolled into the red leader’s chambers. Patryck watched as his lover and his leader immediately reemerged, the former eternally chill while the latter looked just about ready to nuke a first world country. Now that Tord had decided to pursue Tom, well, the best way to put it would be that the man was absolutely _terrible_ at sharing.

“Get ready. We’re heading out,” the Norski spat as he stormed down the hall to the armory.

“He’s going to sweep Tom off his feet,” Patryck declared happily.

“Nothing says _date me_ quite like shooting the heads off your date’s enemies,” Paul drawled sarcastically, fighting back a small smirk.

-

Edd growled under his breath as he pushed his back up against the bathroom door. His super strategic _Operation: Trick Tom Into Staying Over So Edd Could Watch Over Him And Also Matt Just In Case And Also Protect Them Both In Case Tord Came Back_ had been going so well. Tom and Matt had gotten worked up about the plot of one of the movies Matt chose and ended up arguing about it until they both passed out. Even in their sleep, the two men still mumbled about plot holes and acting quality. Edd secured the two of them in his bathroom, as it was the only room in his apartment with no windows and only one (locking) door, plenty easy to protect. He’d sat with his back against the door and his magic sword in his hand for a few hours when he heard the window lock in his bedroom jiggle. 

He’d peeked around the doorway to see a bunch of people in suits piling into his bedroom. _Probably the people working for Tord_. Tightening his grip on the sword in his hands, the man waited for one of the strangers to try and leave the room and then he’d sliced his sword through the suit’s neck. He’d done his best to keep the group confined in his bedroom after that. They’d shot so many holes through the door, Edd lost any hope of not needing to get a new one after tonight. 

Something interesting the brunette learned from his hours facing off against the many guns with only a sword was that his brief stint with superpowers had, evidently, had some after effects. While the artist could no longer fly nor shoot lasers, he’d apparently remained quite bulletproof. This had proved very useful when one of the suits got a lucky shot through the wall, aimed right at Edd’s temple. The bullet bounced off the side of his head and ricocheted back into one of the intruders.

Bulletproof or not, Edd could only keep them contained for so long. When they stormed through the front door too, the brunette lost control. The strange people were all over his apartment, tearing it to shreds and looking for something, _probably Tom_. Edd didn’t know why Tord had chosen now, of all times, to seek revenge upon the alcoholic for shooting him with a harpoon, but Edd wasn’t going to let him succeed. The brunette had retreated back to right outside the bathroom, cutting down anyone who got too close.

A whole swarm of suits had descended upon him at once and were getting distressingly close to actually injuring him. Just as the brunette was about to overwhelmed, the sound of gunfire got even louder. Within moments the crowd surrounding Edd was on the ground, bleeding out. At the end of the hallway, with his gun raised and still smoking, was Tord. The brunette growled at his once friend. He’d sent all of these men here to hurt Tom only to kill them so he could do it himself? Edd couldn’t believe he’d ever been friends with the man. The Tord in his memories and the one staring him down were nothing alike.

“Is Tom safe?” The red leader asked with a tight voice.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Edd spat back. “Get your goons out of here if you’re just going to shoot them all down anyway. They’re trashing my apartment.”

“My goons?” Tord asked with the slightest tilt to his head. “Do you mean these douchebags?” He motioned to the corpses at their feet with the barrel of his gun. “They’re not mine.”

Furrowing his eyebrows, the brunette kept his sword positioned defensively in front of him. “What?”

“These aren’t my soldiers. Mine are far better trained,” Tord answered smoothly, finally lowering his gun.

“Then why are you here?” Edd hissed.

“Obviously to protect the princess, same as you.” Tord called back as he turned around to find more of the suits and dispose of them.

“The princess?” Edd murmured, shooting a glance towards the bathroom door. _Did he mean-_? Shaking his head, the brunette followed after the unexpected ally. He was still wary but he needed all the help he could get.

-

Tom jerked awake when he felt something cold and wet slipping down his neck. Glancing around in surprise, the Brit found himself in Edd’s bathroom, or rather, in the tub in Edd’s bathroom with a snoozing Matt propped against his side. He needed to stop making a habit of randomly waking up in different rooms in Edd's apartment. The ginger’s head was buried in his shoulder and he’d been drooling, which explained the wet feeling on his neck. Carefully removing the sleeping narcissist from his shoulder, the alcoholic stepped out of the bathtub to go and find Edd. Honestly, why had he-

The sound of gunshots reached him. Freezing in place with his eye sockets stretched wide, Tom felt his mouth go dry. _No_. All the assholes that came after him were allowed to screw up his life, were allowed to ruin his home, but Edd- _they were **not** allowed to so much as **touch** Edd_. Running out of the bathroom, the man immediately found a hallway filled with corpses, looking more like the set of a gritty war movie than an apartment hallway. The wallpaper was torn and discolored by gunpowder and blood. But none of that mattered. _Where was Edd?_ Making sure to lock the bathroom door behind him, Tom left Matt where he’d be safest to find his only other friend.

The Brit was seething. His vision was tinted red as he stormed down the hall, following the sound of fighting. He knew his transformation was likely starting to slip, leaving him in his most natural state, somewhere between the fully human image he forced and the fully monster form he could wield. His skin was turning a dark charcoal grey, claws were sprouting from his fingertips and horns were sliding up to blend into his spiked hair. He swallowed the transformation back down, like bile, as he tried to reign in his appearance. As it was now, he only looked a little ashen with nails and teeth a bit sharper than usual. Nothing obvious unless you knew to look for it.

But then he stomped into the living room. He saw Edd, heavily bruised and bleeding, with his head between the wall and the barrel of a gun of some suit. Tord was there too and he wasn’t faring much better but Tom’s tunnel vision was focused on the man in the green pajamas. Edd’s eyes slid over to Tom’s figure and the alcoholic could see the fear in his friend’s eyes.

A roar ripped from his throat as he descended into rage.


	7. A Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!

Edd had not been having fun. While he might be bulletproof, bullets definitely still hurt. When one of the suits had trapped him between the wall and his gun and just fired repeatedly at his skull, well, it hurt like hell. The brunette was barely fighting back the tears when he noticed Tom in the doorway. _No_. He tried to tell the man to run, to hide, that it wasn’t safe with his eyes. Tom wasn’t bulletproof like Edd. Nor had he trained for this shit like Tord. It wasn’t safe. He needed to run.

Red light flooded Tom’s eye sockets and Edd was reminded of last Halloween with the strange little girl. And then Tom roared. 

The volume and power behind the display had knocked back the man holding Edd to the wall. Just as the suit tried to regain his footing and bring his gun back to the brunette, _something_ slammed into him. It took Edd a moment to recognize the attacker as Tom. Because it definitely _was_ Tom, the hollow eye sockets and signature spiked hair assured him of that. But then he also had dark horns nestled in those spiked locks and sharp fangs exhibited by the scowl he was sporting. His hands and forearms had beefed up in size and turned the same dark grey as the horns, with his fingers twisting into something that looked far sharper and quite lethal. Edd was pretty sure there was a stubby little grey tail sticking out from beneath the back of the hoodie. One of his large claws had closed around the head of the suit who’d been tormenting Edd. With a growl, he tightened his grip into a vice and listened as the man wailed while his skull was crushed.

He dropped the dead man to the ground and slowly turned to face the rest of the people in suits. Tord cackled loudly from where he’d been cornered behind the overturned couch. “So the princess decided to join us!” Taking advantage of everyone’s shock, the red leader quickly shot three of the suits in the head. “About time. Would you do us the favor of helping us clean up this mess, you highness?” Tom didn’t spare the mocking grin shot at him a second thought as he used his monster form’s spiritual sense to seek out the rest of his enemies. Turning to face the doorway enemies were about to enter through, the alcoholic let out a low, rumbling growl and fell into a crouch. The moment the door swung open, he charged the group and buried his claws and teeth in every vital area he could reach. His tackle carried him and the carcasses caught on his nails down the hall and far from the watchful eyes of Edd and Tord. 

Once he was out of sight, Tom unsheathed his his claws from the bodies and buried the fingers in his hair, his sharp nails scraping against his scalp and leaving bits and pieces of his victims trapped between follicles. He could feel hiccups and sobs building up in his throat but they were held back by the wall created by his fangs biting into his tongue. Movie night had been _so_ nice, but, in the span of a few hours, the man had lost everything. He’d brought his own problems into his friends’ lives and caused one of them to get heavily injured, (probably) traumatized, and his home destroyed. Without a doubt, Edd hated Tom now.

There were more enemies. As the partially transformed man rammed his shoulder into a group of intruders, the Brit tried to think of a contingency plan for his life. He was probably going to have to move out; Edd and Matt wouldn’t stand for a living magnet of destruction and trouble right down the hall. They didn’t deserve to have their peaceful lives sabotaged by his misfortune and misery.

Gunfire opened on the man’s back, bullets pelting off his charcoal tinted skin, and Tom spun on his large, clawed heel to launch himself at the enemy. With a strangled cry, he wrenched his claws through the midsections of the suits. There was no resistance, his dark nails easily slicing through the dermis and all the organs housed within. A slush of blood and blended bits of internal flesh splattered on the floor of Edd’s apartment. Tom winced at the mess. He didn’t know how Edd could stand being around him. Tom was obviously a waste of flesh and air and matter. All he could do was cause trouble, leave a huge mess in his wake, and drink to forget. An inebriated mind was too fuzzy to recognize its own worthlessness. When not shackled under the weight of mind altering drugs, the man was suffocating in his own self-loathing. Using the strange spiritual sense once again, he skirted past the auras in the battlefield.

A bright and cheery green, radiating kindness and creativity with a bubbling tingle of humor that made it sparkle brightly, like Christmas lights, was resting against the wall in the living room, the energy dimmed and shivering with worry. The taste of sprite or seven up lingered on Tom’s tongue when he observed the aura. Edd would be displeased to know his soul didn’t taste of bacon flavored cola. Close by was a boiling red, the intensity of it causing the color to bleed into the space around it. This energy shuddered just like the former, but the red sparked with excitement and a giddy kind of desire. Cinnamon just about assaulted Tom’s senses when he gave the slightest attention to the soul and, remembering when he and Edd had duped Matt into taking the cinnamon challenge a few years back, Tom was not inclined to get a closer look. The last of the unique auras in the area was the royal purple pulsing softly in time with it’s owner’s snores. This one also sparkled, like the first, but rather than pleasantly, it glittered like the floor of a Sweet and Sassy or Claire’s. The flavor was a startling grapefruit, definitely an acquired taste, and, somehow, edible glitter.

The few remaining stragglers of the intruders had dull auras, practically colorless, tasteless, but easy to spot nonetheless. Tom let his form melt, blending into the shadows on the ground like liquid tar slowly rolling from one puddle of darkness to the next. He slipped through the apartment, even skirting under the feet of the burning red aura, completely unnoticed. The suits were regrouping in Edd’s bedroom, preparing to storm the living room.

Tom spread his shadow body thin, stretching it out to cover all of the floor beneath the suits' feet. The formless darkness that resided in his body shuddered in delight at the gift Tom was about to bestow it. It had actually been quite enjoying all of the rampaging and destruction its host had been partaking in as of late, but this would be the sweetest of all. The shadows twisted and writhed unnaturally, breaking from their two dimensional bounds to stretch up towards the ceiling. Darkness encased the group of intruders, trapping them in a pitch black prison. Tom felt them pound on the walls, unseeing and unaware of their fates. The roommate in the possessed man’s soul clapped its hands in delight, bouncing joyfully at what was to come. With an inaudible sigh, the Brit swallowed. In a fraction of a second, the shadows constricted, crushing and consuming those trapped inside. The darkness easily reformed to the shape of Tom, sporting a queasy look on his face. Honestly, the intruders had tasted rather stale. 

With the area cleared of enemies, there was no one left for Tom to face but Edd. Mentally preparing himself to be metaphorically (and possibly literally) burned at the stake and cast from his friends’ lives forever, Tom left the room. He could probably go live under a bridge- be a weird contemporary version of the troll under the bridge, a hobo-demon hybrid that demands spare change in exchange for safe passage. Slinking back to the living room, the Brit enters the destroyed room with his head down, unable to muster up the energy to force a human form.

Edd is still sitting on the floor, where he was when Tom had first spotted him, watching the monster with wide eyes. Tord was leaning against the wall, wearing a smirk while his eyes skirted up and down Tom’s half-transformed body. Tom was really hoping he hadn’t just seen the communist lick his lips at the sight. He had far too many things to worry about already, much less needing to wonder what the hell _that_ meant. A quick check on the purple aura showed Matt was still asleep on his own. Tom could only wonder how long it would be before Matt forgot him the same way he had Tord.

“Sorry,” Tom muttered, directing his hollow eyes at the brunette on the ground and trying not to think about how his voice was laced with a natural gravel in this form, making every sound pitch like a growl. “About all of this,” he continued, gesturing to the mess around them as he averted his eyes shamefully. “I’ll move out and- I don’t know, it doesn’t matter. Just- don’t worry. I’ll get out of your hair and your life so I won’t cause you anymore trouble.” Running a claw through his hair and accidentally painting his hair more red with the blood still clinging to his nails, Tom tried to think of what else to say. “I don’t blame you if you’re pissed, this is obviously my fault. You shouldn’t have to-”

The monster hybrid was silenced by the overwhelming presence of Sprite flooding all of his senses. It took him a moment to realize he was being hugged. Edd’s arms were wrapped around Tom’s blood painted midsection, tight and secure. “Shut up,” Edd declared into the torn blue hoodie his face was buried in. “You’re my friend. Just because you’re basically some goth preteen’s imaginary monster boyfriend doesn’t mean you’re not also Tom, my childhood friend.” Edd noticed Tord violently flinch out of the corner of his eye and decided to ponder the meaning behind that later. “I don’t blame you for any of this. Besides, it’s hardly that far out of the ordinary for us. I mean, Matt was a vampire for a little while, remember? You and I both had to go to the hospital because we couldn’t figure out how to use the automatic stake machine gun and while we were in the ICU, Matt broke into the blood storage closet there and got put in vampire rehab. This really isn’t that much different.”

“Being a vampire would be so much easier,” Tom groaned, finally relaxing into the hug.

“Does this have something to do with what happened last halloween? With the little girl?” Edd asked curiously, stepping out of the hug to look Tom in the eyes (or lack thereof).

“You mean Kate? Yeah, it’s sort of related to that.” the Ska-fan answered casually.

“Wait, you know her name? You stayed in contact with the tiny demon girl that tried to get Matt and I to kill each other?” The brunette asked in surprise.

“I mean,” Tom’s gaze slid across the room to regard a certain asshole leaning against the wall, “you stayed friends with this guy for a while despite the fact that he kept trying to kill me.” 

“We already talked about this! I wasn’t _really_ trying to kill you!” Tord called out. Edd shot the revolutionary a glare before turning back to Tom.

The alcoholic shrugged, ignoring the man in red, “so I figure it’s about fair.”

Edd seemed to consider this for a long moment, nodding seriously. An epiphany hit him, causing him to turn to the ska-fan with a wide grin. “Tom! Did you know that I’m apparently bulletproof?”

Tom blinked in surprise. “Because of the powers?”

“Yup!” The brunette posed dramatically, imagining a cape fluttering dramatically behind him. “And while that alone is awesome, it also means I can help you with all of these raids that keep happening!” His smile stretched wider, becoming strained as he spoke. “That way _no one_ will be able to get in here anymore without permission.” 

Tord, tired of being ignored, walked forward to stand next to the two men. “Hello, friends. You’re welcome, by the way, for helping you deal with the intruders,” he said with a wide smile. Edd only glared in response. Tom looked like he was about to say something when his cheeks puffed out and he brought a fist to his mouth. Turning away, the Brit belched loudly and a pair of broken sunglasses clattered to the floor.

“I need a tums. Those guys did not go down well,” Tom muttered, leaving for what remained of Edd’s kitchen. 

Edd and Tord sized each other up in silence for a long moment. The brunette shot a quick glance in the direction of the kitchen before glaring into Tord’s one good eye. “If he’s the princess,” the artist spoke lowly, voice uncharacteristically cold, “then I’m the dragon. It’s in your best interest to stay away.” With that the brunette followed after his friend, ready to drown Tom in all the puns he’d thought of since the revelation of his monster form. _So many **horny** jokes_.


	8. Sunshine, Lollipops, and CAW CAW MOTHERFUCKER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, shit. I think this technically just became a crossover fic.

Ever since Edd became involved in the whole kidnapping thing, Tom’s life had gotten immensely easier. After getting stomach medicine and chasing Tord out of the apartment in shambles, the pair set to salvaging the remains of the brunette’s abode. Eternally thankful for their extremely oblivious landlord, the men told their super that the damage had been caused by an accidental gas explosion in the middle of the night. Edd moved into Tom’s living room, piling blankets up on the couch to cocoon himself in at night. Knowing the artist was sleeping in the next room over reminded the alcoholic of when they used to live in a single house, each with only a bedroom to themselves. He missed those times, even the lack of privacy. Back then there was still a chunk of him that hadn't quite felt as dead inside as the rest of him. However after everything that happened with Tord, well, Tom was never all that lively to begin with. If anything, his misery was simply more consistent now. 

The alcoholic was feeling oddly refreshed with Edd’s constant presence, as though whatever in him that had been wilting was finally being watered. With Sprite. Despite the unfortunate ending to the first movie night, the new tradition continued, this time in Tom's apartment. In order to prevent another incident like Edd’s apartment, the two men went ahead and installed various security measures around the complex. Traps the likes of which ranged from those seen in home alone movies to a few bits and bobs _borrowed_ from Tord were hidden in every nook and cranny of their building, ready to decimate any intruders. And if a few of the other residents got caught in the crossfire, well, they really should've been paying more attention to their surroundings.After untangling the old woman who lived on the first floor from the automatic net cannon mounted in Tom's mailbox ( _serves her right for trying to steal Tom's mail_ ), Edd turned to Tom with a grin.

“There's one more I set up,” the brunette declared happily as the old woman flipped the pair off and marched away. “it's a surprise! A good one!”

Tom raised an eyebrow curiously as he turned towards the stairs to head back to his apartment. The artist revealed no more information, content to preserve the mystery. Somehow ascending the steps had lead into a conversation on the topic of an army of ninja ducklings fighting an army of samurai piglets and which of the forces would win if they had equal numbers.

“I'm telling you,” Edd cried out with his hands in the air, “the ninja ducklings have every advantage! They can fly! FLYING PLUS STEALTH EQUALS _ULTIMATE FORCE OF DESTRUCTION AND DOMINATION_!” He failed his arms towards the ceiling as if the grey plaster proved his point. “Those piglets are going to be stealth air-raided before they even know they're fighting to begin with!”

“The brute force of the samurai piglets is greater,” Tom said with far less passion than his friend. “Besides ducklings are incredibly fragile. All its going to take is a single hit and a soldier is down. Pigs are way sturdier.” He paused for a long moment before dealing the killer blow. “I'm pretty sure ducklings can't fly right away anyway.” 

Edd pushed open the door to the apartment, his mouth contorted as he was about to reply when his eyes fell on something within the doorway. Tom peeked around Edd’s body to peer inside and frowned.

“Hello, old friends!” Tord called cheerfully from where he was lounging on the couch.

Sighing, Tom pushed past the brunette to tell the communist off. “Look-” 

He was cut off by a loud cry from Edd. “CAW CAW MOTHERFUCKER!” The artist had pulled something from his pocket, something that looked like a garage door opener. Pressing down on the single button, a sudden tidal wave of sound engulfed the apartment. Were those trumpets?

A voice pierced through the instrumentals and Tom realized what he was hearing. _Oh yessssss_.

“Sunshine, lollipops, and-”

Tord had bolted up from his comfortable position on the couch and was scrambling towards the open window he'd probably entered through. Flipping Tom and Edd the bird with both hands as he threw himself outside, Tord was gone before the first line could be finished.

“Caw Caw Motherfucker?” Tom asked over the chorus. Edd shrugged before hitting the button again to turn the music off.

“It felt right,” the brunette answered, heading to the window to close it. 

“You probably shouldn't-” Tom tried to warn his friend. The artist ignored the ska-fan, grabbing onto the window to slide the glass down shut. As soon as his arms were up high, Tord reappeared on the windowsill, snatching the garage door opener from Edd’s hoodie pocket. The communist tossed it in the air before shooting it to bits with the handgun at his hip. “Aaaaaand you did anyway.” Sighing, the Brit flopped down on his couch. Edd scowled as Tord invited himself back in, patting invisible dust off his military regalia. The brunette darted over next to the magic sword he'd gotten from the consignment store, grasping the hilt tightly. 

“What did I tell you about coming back here?” The artist growled.

“Literally nothing,” Tord pointed out smartly, not the least bit intimidated by the pointy stick being waved at him. “All you did was make a metaphor about Tom being a princess and you being the dragon that guards the tower she's trapped in.”

Tom huffed another long sigh at that. “Why do I have to be the princess? If anyone here can breathe fire, it's me.”

“You can breathe fire?” Tord asked delightedly, his head swiveling to stare at the Brit in awe.

“Haven't tried yet but I wouldn't be surprised. More likely than either of you ever managing it, anyway.” The ska-fan answered honestly, too tired to fumble with secrets. Within moments the communist was right in front of the eyeless man, peering down at him with his one grey eye.

“While we’re on the topic of your powers,” he said in the sickeningly sweet tone he used to use with Edd and Matt, “tell me about yours. I really only know about the two-phase transformation and the surprising volume.” He stepped back just far enough to let the sword thrown in his direction rush past his face without touching it.

Edd hissed pitifully while Tom just ran a hand down his face. “If I tell you how I got these… _powers_ , will you get the fuck back out of my life?”

Grinning wickedly, Tord took a seat on the couch next to Tom. “Maybe.”

“Jesus fucking a baptized watermelon!” The Brit declared angrily, throwing his arms up in the air. It’d been awhile since he last belted out a ridiculous exclamation, he hadn’t felt enough like himself to attempt redefining the common English curse word vernacular. “What is it going to take to get you out of my life?”

“An oath of eternal servitude,” Tord replied immediately, his tone dead serious.

“How does becoming your servant get you out of my life?” Tom asked dryly, rubbing at his temples. Before Tord could respond, Edd threw himself on the couch, flopping face down between the two men. He shouted something muffled into the couch while raising one arm to make a few random hand gestures.

“You’re right, Edd,” Tom declared, standing up. “I’m going to go do that. I’ll be back... Whenever.” With that, the human-monster hybrid left the apartment.

Tord blinked in surprise before lifting Edd’s face from the couch cushions’ sweet embrace. “What did you tell him to do?” he asked. The red leader had yet to implement his Tom tracking system so he needed all possible information in order to keep an eye on his super soldier material.

“Actually, I just called you a few _choice_ names and quoted something from Star Wars. I don’t know what Tom was talking about,” Edd mumbled aloud, furrowing his eyebrows. Tord dropped Edd’s head back into the couch cushions with a curse.

-

Tom walked into a small cafe, his (lack of) eyes immediately drawn to a certain booth in the back. At the table were three people: a blonde man, a woman wearing a hat, and a small blonde girl. The man noticed Tom and waved excitedly.

“Tom!” He declared, his voice sounding eerily similar to Tom’s own, just far cheerier. “My grumpy vocal chord twin!” He quickly made space on the bench for the new arrival to sit down.

“Hey Ben, Lucy, Kate,” Tom said amicably as he took a seat. “How are you?” The group descended into small talk, chatting easily about their abnormally exciting lives.

“It sure was surprising when Kate came back from trick or treating all excited about finding a demon,” Ben said wistfully. Lucy mumbled something under her breath, rubbing vigorously at her temples. Tom could relate.

“Actually,” Tom said, glancing towards Kate, who was grinning wickedly, “I need to talk to Kate about some demon stuff.”

“Ooooh,” Ben cooed, grabbing Lucy’s arm. “We’ll get out of your way then. See you later, Tom!” With that, the blonde man ran off, dragging his friend behind him.

“So, Tom.” Kate said after giggling, “what do you want to talk about?”


	9. Buh-Bye Now, Goodbye, Toodaloo, Adios, Bye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> toms all look heres hte dealio bro n tords all nooooooooo. 'S crazy man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyy guess who needs to go back through the entire fic and factor in Ringo because HOLY SHIT HOW DID I FORGET THE CAT?   
> Also- sorry this one took longer than the others. Finals happened and now I'm on break.  
> Also Also- I know I just started adding illustrations but all my art supplies are back in the dorm, where I'm not, so pictures are postponed for a bit.

When Tom returned to his and Edd’s shared apartment, he was not exactly sure what to expect. He’d taken advantage of Edd’s muffled dialogue to escape the abode without questioning which had left two rather volatile individuals alone together. He wasn’t sure if he’d have much of anything left by the time he got back, which would be unfortunate because he doubted Matt would be willing to let both his friends move in. Especially not if their apartments kept getting systematically destroyed. When the humonster saw his front door was still standing ( _and without bullet holes, no less!_ ) he was pleasantly surprised. However, after pushing open the door, the man was somewhat less pleased.  
Edd and Tord were wrestling on the ground, growling and snapping at one another. Tord’s extensive military training seemed to give him a slight upper hand over the brunette but it wasn’t much considering the artist’s remaining enhanced strength. Despite the immense power both of the men wielded, Tom could not help but be reminded of toddlers as they rolled around on the ground gracelessly. He met the gaze of Ringo, curled up on one of the armrests of Tom’s couch, who’d settled into the new apartment quite easily. Somehow the cat looked exasperated at his owner’s actions and Tom could only nod sympathetically. 

“At least nothing is on fire,” he said aloud, watching both of the impromptu wrestlers bolt upright to stare at him.

“Tom, old friend! Where did you go?” Tord somehow managed to smoothly right himself and pat off invisible dust with a noble air as though he hadn't just been rolling around on the ground like a child. Tom saw right through it.

“Doesn't matter. We need to talk.” The Brit hissed, jerking his thumb back towards his kitchen table.

Edd, ever the mature adult, let out a long “Ooooo!” from where he was still sprawled on the floor.

The red leader whirled back to loom over the man-child and _hissed_. Ringo immediately took offense at his person’s treatment and leapt from the couch onto Edd’s chest to hiss back at the mean human. His fur fluffed up as he and the red human growled lowly at one another. The stalemate was broken when the human that smelled like sulfur grabbed the mean one by the back of his red pelt and dragged him away. Ringo settled down proudly on his own person’s green hide.

“Are you incapable of not antagonizing everyone within a twenty kilometer radius of you?” Tom grumbled as he forcefully sat Tord down in one of the wooden chairs in his kitchen. The Norwegian had to stop himself from petulantly declaring that the cat had started it. The cat had not started it. Tom had.

“What did you want to talk about?” Tord asked, smoothing the anger lines out of his face. _Charm_ , the rebel reminded himself. _Make him think you're someone he wants, needs._

“Look, here's the deal,” Tom groaned as he slouched back in the chair across the table from his nemesis. He dragged his hand across his face, not bothering to look at the man in red. “I'm possessed. That's what this,” he paused to let his eyes flash red, “is.” The Brit did not wait for any response before continuing. “It happened a while back, when Edd first got his powers, actually. A demon borrowed my body for a bit until Edd and Eduardo literally beat it out of me.”

“Shit,” Edd called from the living room, “that was you?”

“Yup,” Tom answered dryly. “Now, that'd be all fine and good and kind of par for the course for us, except that the bastard demon accidentally bound himself to my soul. The first time he was kicked outta me, he tried to find another host before being slingshotted back into me after a few days. Since then he's tried to break our bond more times than I've cared to count. Used to be every week or so I'd suddenly get a shock when he and my soul collided again after he'd been pulled back in. Then he'd leave. Over time the return time got shorter and shorter, until finally he couldn't leave at all. That's because we've been fusing together into one entity or some bullshit like that. My consciousness won out over his because he was pure destructive desire whereas I, believe it or not, am actually capable of conscious thought.”

“So the reason you opted for a harpoon gun,” Tord murmured, still processing all the information.

“Is because he wasn't home at the moment,” Tom finished easily. “So that's where I get my abilities and that's why you can't make super soldiers using my DNA or some bullshit like that.” Tord blinked in surprise.

“You’re saying these powers aren’t rooted in biological changes I could replicate?” The man questioned as his fists tightened instinctively. He hated when people underestimated his abilities.

“Yup,” the Brit replied, popping the p. “It’s more about this energy bullshit that constantly influences my form rather than rewriting the base genetics or something. At least, that’s what I was told by an expert in the field. The way she described it was _imagine I’m a piece of paper. The demon is a crayon that scribbled all over me. If you take a piece of paper and replicate it, you’re not going to get the exact same scribble._ ”

“What if I clone you?” Tord asked, frantically trying to find a reason to justify continuing to insert himself into Tom’s life. He couldn’t just _want_ to be there. 

“Wouldn’t work,” Tom shot back nonchalantly. “It’s my soul that the thing is bound to, not my body. I’m a complete dead end in your quest for super soldiers. Time for you to go somewhere else now. Good bye.” The ska-fan says the last bit with a pleased smile on his face. With his cat finally off his chest, Edd jumped off the ground in delight to grab Tord by the hood and drag him towards the front door.

“As _fantastic_ as it was seeing you again, it'd be great if you could get out of our lives now and never come back, thanks,” Edd declared in a chipper voice as he wrenched the door open and tossed the Norwegian into the hall. The door shut behind Tord and the man heard a very distinctive victorious whoop from inside the apartment behind him. He could not be bothered to care, however, as his mind was violently churning with excuses to hang around Tom. It would need to be good.


	10. I'm Not A Demon Hunter, I Swear!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tord picks a fight with the wrong person but, in the end, love always prevails.
> 
> Doesn't it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was on the other side of the country so I didn't really have time to write. Fortunately I was on airplanes for eight cumulative hours, a large portion of which I spent working on the next few chapters which I'll be putting out in the coming days to make it up to you guys. Hope you all had lovely christmachanuquanzadons or any other holiday you celebrate that occurs near to the winter solstice!

Tord sat at his desk, frowning and glaring at the doors. _What was taking them so long?_ As though to answer his unasked question, a quick knock sounded against the hardwood. “Enter,” the red leader called immediately, fighting back a grin.

Patryck stepped into the office with a manila folder in his hands. “I have what you asked for, sir,” he said proudly. Holding the folder out for his boss to take, the man smiled. “I'd just like to say I think this is a wise course of action, sir, and quite admirable too.”

“Indeed,” Tord murmured as he swiped the folder from his soldier’s hand to flip through the files.

“You're proving to us all just how fearless you are,” Pat continued, “pursuing your love with a determination rivaled only by your desire for world conquest. It's humanizing you in the eyes of your troops, sir. They feel they can relate to you more, understand you more, and fight on your behalf. This is actually improving morale.”

Tord raised an eyebrow as he stared at Patryck to determine whether or not the man was pulling his leg. “Is that right?” he muttered before returning his attention to the papers before him.

“In fact,” Pat said, “Now is a great time for you to address the troops and really inspire feelings of unity and- where are you going?” His leader had stood up and shrugged on his coat, walking towards the exit.

“I'm off to negotiate,” he answered as he tossed the folder back at his subordinate. A single photograph slipped out, showing a small blonde girl wearing a large smile.

-

Kate waved goodbye to Ben as he wandered down the street towards Lucy’s apartment, only narrowly avoiding getting hit by a car when he dashed across the street to look at something shiny on the other side. She smiled and turned around to face the figure she'd known had snuck up behind her, silently. He was taller than her, as most people were, with brown hair and scars marking half of his face. Both hands were shoved casually into the pockets of a red hoodie but she could see the glint of metal reflecting off the exposed wrist of one.

“I'd like to talk to you about something,” he said with a bright and sugary smile. She recognized that smile. It was just like her own. This man was no friend.

“I would,” Kate replied in a honey sweetened voice, “but I'm afraid I was told not to talk to strangers.” 

“Oh we’re hardly strangers,” the man replied pulling the metallic arm from its place to gesture lazily in the air as he spoke. “We have a mutual friend.” His one grey eye watched her menacingly as his smile widened. “Tom.”

Kate immediately charged the man's legs, knocking him off his feet. Pulling a dagger from one of her flower embroidered socks, she held it to his neck. A manic grin blossomed on her face at the thought of blood spilling. “I don't take too well to demon hunters in my territory “ She hissed giddily.

A high pitched whine from next to her ear caused the girl to turn her head. She spotted the red metallic arm right beside her temple, it's palm growing brighter and brighter as it gathered energy. She jumped back just in time to avoid the blast of plasma fired from the fake limb. Seemed it wasn't going to be as easy daggers she thought. This had the potential of becoming _fun_. Flipping the blade around in her hand, the blonde quickly sliced her finger tips and dragged the bloody digit along the length of the blade. Her blood did _fun_ things to humans.

“Demon hunters, huh?” The man called out as he casually sat up. “Seems there's a lot out there I don't know about. I should look into that, could be a useful resource.” He was on his feet in a flash, settling into a fighting stance.

“If you don't know about demon hunters,” Kate replied as she leaned forward, getting ready to charge him once more. “Then you've got no clue what I am.” A deadly grin split her face. “And that's your biggest mistake.” She ran forward, slipping past the kick he launched at her and grabbing onto his side, knocking him back off his feet once again. 

This time, however, the ground didn't catch his back. Tord watched in his peripheral vision as the ground slipped past him and he fell through to somewhere else entirely. Landing face first against what felt like concrete, the man immediately jumped to his feet, trying to identify his surroundings. It was the exact same location he'd just been in, but all the people were gone and the colors were inverted. A high pitched giggle, chiming like a bell, echoed around him sounding as though it were coming from within his own head.

“You've got me curious now,” Tord called out to the empty streets nonchalantly. “What _are_ you?” His voice rebounded off his surroundings, returning to him. A long moment passed before he shrugged. Walking forward, he could hear the last remnant of his echoing words.

He felt a short breath puff against his ear and he froze in place. “Wouldn't you like to know,” a young girl’s voice whispered almost directly against his ear drum. Pulling a gun from his waistband, the man held it next to his ear, the barrel pointed in the exact direction the voice should've come from, and fired. He knew immediately that the bullet hadn't hit anything. A cackling voice between his ears only assured him of that.

“A gun?” the voice asked delightedly. “THAT'S adorable! You think you can stop me with a gun?”

“I've got to try something, haven't I?” Tord responded without a hint of fear in his tone. “Although I don't want to stop you, really. I just want to talk.” He paused, sliding his eyes across the landscape around him. “About Tom.”

“Tom's my friend,” the voice replied immediately. “He lives in my territory. He's mine. Try to hurt him and you're basically issuing an insult to me. And I,” the voice rose to almost 200 decibels, becoming deafening, “am the _last_ person you want to insult.”

“Hurt him?” Tord laughed. “Hardly. That was in the past. I've got far better plans for him now.” He spun in a lackadaisical circle, arms held wide. “See, you say he's yours. What I want,” he paused, enjoying the dramatics, “is to make him mine.”

That seemed to throw Kate off kilter as the world around him wobbled the way the image did on an old TV when someone hit it. “You've got me curious now,” her voice was coming from directly in front of him. Before his eyes the off color concrete warped and bulged, stretching into the shape of the small girl who'd thrown him into this strange place. “What do you want with Tom?”

Tord bit the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting ‘wouldn't you like to know’. “I already told you, I want to make him mine.”

The stone statue squinted at him for a long moment before bursting into peals of laughter. “You're in love with him!” She declared gleefully.

“Hardly,” Tord scoffed even as his stomach flipped widely at the thought. “I just want him to be mine- and only mine. No one else can have him.”

“Like I said!” Kate called again, her laughter revived. It took maybe two minutes for the statue to calm before she composed herself to evenly stare at the man. “So you want to talk about Tom.” Tord nodded, slowly lowering himself to sit in front of her so they were at eye level. “Well, he's got no gag reflex for one thing-”

“I want to talk about how to make him mine,” Tord immediately cut her off, frowning. He'd gotten enough of that from Patryck and Paul’s teasing, thank you very much.

Kate stayed silent for a long moment, watching the revolutionary. “I like Tom. He's fun. It's nice having a demon friend. He gets me, better than almost everyone I know. If you hurt him-”

“How would you feel about owning Australia?” Tord interrupted, leaning forward. When she only raised an eyebrow in response, he sighed. “I'm not going to hurt him. I want him the way he is- actually, I want him better. He's more fun when not passed out drunk. A broken Tom is no good to me. A functioning Tom can decimate an entire military platoon without breaking a sweat.”

“You love his power,” Kate observed. “But what about his soul?”

“Wow, you were dead set on killing me earlier,” at her silence, Tord sighed. “Okay maybe not killing me but those were some definite eternal torment vibes.” At that Kate shrugged and grinned. “Now you're asking me if I _really_ love the guy. It's an abrupt shift in tone.” It took him a few seconds and Kate’s growing smirk to realize his mistake. “WANT. _WANT_. Asking if I really _want_ the guy.”

“Do you?” Kate asked.

Tord huffed out a long breath, pulling his human hand through his hair. “Tom is,” he frowned and flexed the fingers on his metal arm, “the person who caused me to lose my arm.” His false fingers traced along the edge of his eyepatch. “My eye.” He clenched the bright red fist. “My revolution.” He looked up into the eyes of Kate's figure. “Tom is the one who snorted loudly at my jokes, even though I make them at the expense of others. And Tom is the one who silently handed me a smirnoff, the good stuff, from his private stash after something _bad_ would let me cope in peace. Tom is the roomate I'd run into late at night, in the dark house we all shared, while Edd and Matt slept. We'd sit on the couch and stare at the TV in silence, saying nothing to one another- because that would ruin it. The moment one of us opened our mouths to do anything other than swallow down more alcohol, the moment we tried to say anything- everything fell apart. We were more than our petty insults in those moments.” His red fingers scraped loudly against the concrete as he gestured broadly. “Tom is dry humor and low chuckles and witty remarks and hating christmas and being oddly smart in the worst ways. He's alcohol and insecurity and depression and anxiety and hating people and not knowing when to stop, even when it hurts. He's lyrical and calm, a smooth bass line playing against the chaotic rhythms of life and sometimes his sound gets drowned out in the insanity of it all, the pain and loss, the heartache. The world doesn't deserve his music, not after what it's done to him, to all of us. This world is broken, corrupt, and I intend to change it. To fix it. But in the mean time Tom shouldn't have to pit his sound against the chaotic cacophony of this capitalistic and greedy world. He should just play alongside me because I'm not going to drown out his music.”

“I don't want to Australia. Too much to manage,” Kate replied easily, seemingly satisfied with Tord’s rant.

“Oh, you don't need to run it. You just get to torment all the people who live there without ever facing any kind of consequences. You'll get to assign subjects to run it for you and then do whatever you please.” Tord answered back leisurely. “A whole continent, your territory. Of course, you can go anywhere else whenever you wish. I'm sure Tom would be delighted every time you visit.”

Kate grinned. “You want him to be yours? I've got something that should help push you in the right direction.”


	11. Let's Make a Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom realizes his mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What could've been stretched into six far more detailed chapters compacted into one because I really want to get the plot moving along and this would'v dragged it out far too much for my patience.

Something was very, very wrong. One moment Tom had been snuggled up peacefully in his blankets, the soft sounds of an episode of adventure time sounding from the living room, and the next moment he was two feet off the ground in the middle of some office being greeted with a shout of “It worked!” Falling to the ground abruptly as gravity suddenly returned to him and the clothes, pillow case, and blanket he'd been transported with, Tom groaned, already recognizing the voice. His suspicions were confirmed as a familiar scar covered face filled his range of vision. “Good morning, Tom,” Tord said happily, leaning over the downed Brit.

“It's 3 AM,” the man replied angrily, throwing his hands over his eyes.

“Exactly! Morning!” Tord repeated.

“Why am I here?” Tom groaned.

Clapping loudly, the Norski hauled Tom to his feet. “That is the best part. I summoned you!” The eyeless man pulled his hands from his eye sockets and his abductor gestured to their feet. A summoning circle was drawn in sharpie into the carpet.

“Oh no,” Tom murmured. “Oh shit. Don't tell me this means what I think it means.”

“Oh yes, it absolutely does.” Tord jumped outside out the circle and looked back at the grimacing demon. “Shall we make a contract?”

“Ha,” Tom huffed dryly. “So why does it feel like I'm the one making a deal with the devil?” He tried to walk out of the drawing only to run into an invisible wall. “Right,” he drawled slowly. “Being a demon sucks ass.”

“Hardly,” Tord replied nonchalantly. “Now, let's talk business.” He spun in a little circle, waving at the room around them. “These are my chambers.”

“Wow,” Tom sighed, apathetically.

“I suggest getting well acquainted with them since you aren't leaving until you make a contract with me. Knowing you and how stubborn you are, it's going to take quite some time.” Tord said amicably. He tossed a small bell to Tom. “Ring that anytime you need food, water, or a pot to piss in. Someone will bring it. The intent here is to make a contract, not to torture you, so you've no need to worry.” The revolutionary turned around, gazing out the large windows situated behind his desk. “It's really in the best interest of all of us, Tom. Demons can't survive on just alcohol and Mac and cheese alone. You need souls. Believe me when I say, I can get you souls.” He spun back around. “What do you say?”

Tom was back to laying on the ground, rolled onto his side and facing away from Tord. He'd pulled the blanket over himself and bunched the pillow case under his head, evidently going back to sleep. It'd been a stroke of luck he was apparently teleported with everything he directly touched, otherwise his clothes might not have come with him. The blanket and pillow case were just a bonus. He'd drifted off in the middle of Tord’s little speech, uninterested and exhausted.

“Of course,” Tord huffed in amusement. He typed out a little message to Edd on a burner phone, telling him not to worry and that his roommate would be back soon. The Norski then sent the text and shoved the device through an industrial shredder, watching it's metallic innards trickle out the bottom in tiny pieces. Turning off the light, he walked out the door with a smile on his face. _A push in the right direction indeed._

The first week was a little rough just because everyone was adjusting to the new arrangement. Tom wouldn't talk to anyone, only glare, and he refused food and water for the first five days. Tord had to sneak in while the Brit slept and give the man an IV just to be sure he wouldn't die. After Tom realized starving himself wasn't going to get himself out of this predicament, he started to eat again.

The second week was when Tord finally managed to get Tom to respond to him. He'd picked up the habit of rambling around the humonster, hoping something would cause him to speak. It was after a soldier stopped by to report an incident involving two tanks, a rubix cube, and a dare. After doling out appropriate punishments to all involved, the soldier left and Tord made a disparaging remark mostly to himself regarding the habits of men over compensating for their insecurity about the size of their dicks. It had gotten a chuckle out of his captive and just like that the flood gates had broken. From that afternoon on, the two would engage in witty banter, almost bordering on friendly at times, as Tord worked and Tom lounged on the floor.

The third week, Tom figured out how to use his blanket to drag things over him. When the red leader walked in to see Tom sprawled across one of the chairs that usually sat in front of his desk reading the communist manifesto, his heart skipped a beat. The casual atmosphere, Tom's nonchalance- Tord could almost forget the summoning circle beneath him. It was as though Tom were here of his own free will, visiting Tord because he wanted to.

“Never actually read this before,” Tom murmured as Tord closed the door behind him. “It's still romanticized hogwash but I'll admit that Marx is a passionate writer.”

That week was especially nice, in Tord’s opinion, as he and Tom debated Marxist ideology and then the approaches that Lenin, Trotsky, Mao, and Stalin took. They were productive discussions, insightful, even if they were peppered with profanity and insults regarding religion and Porn viewing habits. Tord actually adjusted a few of his programs in accordance with some of the things Tom had said. It only proved to Tord how useful Tom would be. How _great_ it would be to have the man at his side.

The fourth week was when Tord arrived unexpectedly at 5 AM and caught Tom in the middle of stretching. Apparently being confined to a small space meant sometimes you needed to limber up to go from going stir crazy. And apparently Tom stretched by melting into a shadow and filling the entirety of the cylindrical world he was limited to. When Tord opened his door to a column of utter black, all encompassing darkness in the middle of his chambers, where Tom was supposed to be, he wasn't sure what to think. Then, when the darkness dropped to the floor and a horned Tom rose from the shadow with darkness still clinging to him like tar, until he stood straight and the shadows melted back into his skin along with the claws, tail, and horns, Tord knew exactly what to think. That it was amazing and a huge advantage on the battlefield. Stealth tactics were often explained as becoming one with the shadows but the Red Leader doubted anyone had managed to do so literally quite before. For the rest of the week he pleaded with Tom to let him see what else he could do. Tom refused.

Week five was when a spy broke into Tord’s office, apparently not knowing that someone was being kept there at all hours of the day. The moment the figure clad in black slipped into the dark room, Tom awoke and melted into the floor. The foolish interloper made the mistake of walking right over Tom’s shadow form. The noise in Tom's soul violently writhed in delight as he slowly sucked the human down into his depths, feeding upon the life energy as screams and wails echoed through out the complex. He took his time, savoring the soul, reveling in the way it brought his blood to life. It'd been too long since he had consumed a soul. He made sure to relish in this one.

When Tord arrived to a report that horrible gut wrenching screams had been heard coming from his chambers during the night shift, he ran. If something had happened to Tom- Upon entering the room, Tord found Tom lying on the ground, slumbering peacefully. Later reviews of security tapes showed an unknown figure entering the room just before the night patrolmen reported hearing the screams and never exiting. The revolutionary swelled with pride and curiosity even as rumors flooded the ranks that he kept a vicious, _monsterous_ guard dog in his chambers at night.

During week six, Tom rolled over on his side to look up at Tord, sitting at his desk and filling out paperwork.

“Fine,” he declared. Tord perked up, curious, before he realized what the Brit meant.

“I'm glad you see it my way!” Tord declared happily. Jumping over his desk to stand at the edge of Tom's summoning circle. “You need my blood, right?” he asked, extending his hand out towards his soon to be personal demon. 

“Yeah,” Tom muttered running a hand through his hand. The two made eye contact (or as close to eye contact you could get with only one functioning eyeball between them), until finally the Brit accepted the hand, grabbing in by the wrist and turning the palm to face upwards.

“You won't regret this,” Tord said seriously, grin pulling at his lips.

“I already do,” Tom answered. He rolled his neck, easily falling into his half transformed state before burying his teeth in Tord’s forearm.


	12. Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've got to admit, Sprite, black licorice vodka, cinnamon, and edible glitter sounds like the kind of drink that kills people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need someone who actually likes alcohol to try and make it, call it "The Gang" or something more witty about our Eddsworld protagonists, drink it, and tell me how it tastes. Bonus points if it all stays down.

Edd’s wrath, upon walking into his apartment for the first time in over a month, was really the only possible downside to finally getting to return home. Unlocking the front door and walking in, Tom braced himself for the worst, but he was only met with silence. Edd wasn't home. It was clear that, while Tom was gone, the artist had settled in. The apartment was equal parts Tom and Edd now. The checker print back splash in the kitchen assured the Brit he was in the right place despite the massive quantities of cola cluttering every surface. The only place that was the same was Tom's own bedroom, looking untouched since the night he'd been teleported away: missing a blanket and a pillow case.

Tom decided to do the best damage control he could before Edd returned. Nothing said _I'm sorry I abruptly vanished for six weeks without warning or contacting you even once and have now just as abruptly returned also without any warning_ quite like food. A nice looking macaroni recipe (in half an hour!) pulled off of the Internet and two hours in the kitchen later and the entire apartment was starting to smell like… burning. Frowning, Tom watched as smoke billowed out of the oven wondering where he'd gone wrong.

“SURPRISE MOTHER- TOM!” A shout sounded from behind the Brit. The humonster turned around just in time to be tackled into hug by a brunette man. “WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU?!” Edd cried into Tom’s hoodie as he dropped yet another garage opener to the floor.

“Funny thing about being a demon,” Tom drawled slowly, “people can literally summon me if they know the right circle.”

Edd pushed back from Tom to look at his face. “Don't tell me-”

“Yup,” the demon answered immediately. 

“What the hell did he want?!” Edd threw his arms up in the air. 

Tom, desperate to change the subject, picked up the garage opener and held it up to Edd. “Moved on from Caw Caw then?”

The artist shrugged, gingerly taking the garage opener back. “I saw the smoke coming out from under the door and figured it was another raid where they were using gas. Those guys in suits are damn persistent.”

“Shit. They were here even while I was gone?”

“Yea-AAAH! YOU STILL HAVEN'T TOLD ME WHAT _HE_ WANTED.” Edd narrowed his eyes, glaring at Tom. “Why did he keep you wherever you were for six weeks?!”

“So, being a demon, people can summon me.” Tom started, guiding Edd to a kitchen chair so he could sit. “Also, still being a demon, people can make contracts with me.”

“Noooooooo,” Edd said with wide eyes. The ska-fan merely averted his eyes, staying silent. “Are you insane?!” He shouted.

“You can only go so many weeks confined to a circle with a diameter of 7 feet before, yeah, you end up insane. So, Edd, I kind of really was near the end there,” Tom spat back in anger. He wasn't angry at Edd. He was angry at himself. His words didn't exactly express that though.

Edd fell quiet, hurt more than evident on his face. “I'm sorry,” he whispered, glaring at the table.

“Edd, no,” Tom tried before he was cut off.

“I should've- maybe if I researched demons and we knew about this beforehand or if I'd done a better job of looking for you after you disappeared-” 

“Edd, stop. There was no way we could've seen this coming,” Tom said.

“We really should've though!” The brunette protested. “We told _Tord_ of all people that you were a demon. TORD. We know the type of person he is. Of course he'd try to summon a real demon. Hell, he probably wants to be one!” Sighing, Edd buried his face in his hands. “Telling him the truth was a mistake.” Peeking through his fingers, he stared mournfully at his eyeless friend. “Alright, tell me about your new life as a slave and all the ridiculous things you're going to have to do for him now. I'm as close to emotionally ready as I can get.”

“That’s the weird thing,” Tom said, finally removing the blackened macaroni from the oven. “He didn't make me swear a life of indentured servitude to him. The contract we made was he gets to summon me once per week and during emergencies. It seems pretty, and this could just me still being crazy, reasonable.”

Edd nodded slowly, unfurling from his tensed posture. “No, you're right. That is reasonable. And in exchange you get his soul when he dies?”

“Nah,” the humonster shook his head. “Consuming his soul would be the equivalent of trying to do the cinnamon challenge by the gallon. It'd probably kill me. I get the souls of anyone who gets in our way. They were going to die anyway, so I'm just keeping all those souls from going to waste. Plus it'll add a little variety to my diet. You can only eat so many bland tasting people in suits before you get a little sick to your stomach.”

“Souls have tastes?” Edd asked curiously. “If Tords a gallon of cinnamon, what's mine?”

“Sprite,” Tom answered honestly, not even blinking at his friend’s cry of anguish.

“Okay, fine,” the artist relented after a few dramatic shouts to the sky. “Matt?”

“Edible glitter,” the demon shot back immediately, poking at the black, hardened mess he'd set on the table. It looked a lot like coal.

“Do you know what it was that you used taste like, before the demon business happened?” Edd asked curiously.

Tom paused to consider the question. He'd never thought to check that before. A quick shift to his partially transformed state and some focusing on his center later, he had an answer. “Black licorice vodka,” he said absently scratching at the skin one of his horns had receded into.

“So Sprite, black licorice and vodka, edible glitter, and cinnamon. We were one hell of a volatile cocktail. No wonder people had a hard time sticking around.” There was a beat of silence before the brunette smirked. “I can’t believe you drank so much alcohol that it infused with your soul.”

“If that was how it worked you’d taste like Cola, not Sprite,” Tom replied dryly, trying to take a bite of the charred black mess.

“Why Sprite?” Edd sobbed again, burying his face in his hands.

“At least it wasn’t Pepsi,” Tom said as he dropped the block back to the table, giving up.

The artist gasped in mock shock. “How dare you,” he hissed, “even _suggest_ such a thing.”

“Do you think the taste of a person’s soul affects their food preferences? So, obviously, I love vodka, regardless of the flavor,” Tom spoke, completely ignoring Edd’s frown, “but you don’t like Sprite, although you don’t really hate it either. It just isn’t Coke is all. I don’t know anything about the commie’s eating habits. As for Matt,” the alcoholic paused. “Does he even know edible glitter exists?”

Edd blinked slowly. “Holy shit. We need to show him edible glitter right now. He’s going to put it on _everything_.”

“He’s going to put it in his hair,” Tom pointed out dryly.

“Yeah, but then he’ll realize it’s for food and he’ll put it on everything he eats. Sandwiches, waffles, those cookies he bakes in the shape of his face- _everything_.” Edd insisted happily, jumping to his feet.

“I think they sell it in the grocery store down the street,” the humonster replied, also standing.

“What are we waiting for?” Edd cried out.


	13. Nefarious Plotting In Accordance With Hygiene Schedules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone stop Tord. He's turning into the pervy male lead from an ecchi anime.

Tom wasn’t quite sure what to expect as a result of his new _arrangement_ with Tord. He knew he’d be summoned once a week (and for emergencies) and the other general parameters of the contract, but not the finer details. He’d wager money that Tord would just summon him outside an enemy base, point at it, and say something demeaning (like _go get it, boy_!), if it weren’t for the fact that the revolutionary had a nasty habit of surprising Tom. Whatever Tord was scheming, Tom probably didn’t want to know.

The alcoholic was absolutely right in that assumption. The Red Leader, having finally achieved demonic power at his fingertips with which he could (and would) dominate the world, had already set about his first order of business: figuring out Tom’s shower schedule. For the life of him, the militant man couldn’t remember whether Tom had taken morning or night showers when they were still roommates. If only he’d known to pay attention to it back then, he could’ve achieved his brilliant ploy the day after the contract was made. Just a little blood from a fingertip, the right garbled latin words, and the perfect timing and Tord could summon a naked, glistening Tom directly before him. Was that so much to ask?

His first experiment was a late morning shower, calling Tom to him around ten. They were planning a raid at eleven on a nearby facility of an opposing rebel army, so even if Tom hadn’t been bathing, he’d still have a purpose. The Brit, unfortunately, appeared in front the villain fully clothed and absently chewing on a piece of toast. He raised one thin eyebrow at the sight of his contractor before sighing and facing the revolutionary.

“Tom,” Tord said amicably, doing a stupendous job of hiding his disappointment.

“Not an emergency then,” the Brit replied, empty eye sockets sweeping over the quiet room the two stood in. “What do you want?”

“We’re about to _visit_ some neighbors,” said with a mischievous smile. “Bringing you along should send them the right message.”

“Raising an enemy base, terrorize the troops, got it,” the humonster drawled tiredly, unimpressed with the communist’s euphemism. “Got anything we could use to hide my human identity? I’ve got enough people attacking me as is, I don’t need your enemies added to the list.”

Tord hummed in thought before snapping his fingers and walking off, motioning to Tom to follow him. They arrived at the inventory and a halloween monster mask was shortly procured.

“I hope you don’t think it’s too on the nose,” Tord said with a smirk as Tom pulled it on.

“It isn’t physically possible for me to give fewer shits,” the alcoholic replied, voice muffled by the mask.

“Time to move out then,” the Red Leader said with a grin. The unit they moved out with was small. A large amount of soldiers wouldn’t be necessary with the veritable living weapon they’d be fighting alongside. The men exchanged looks and sent curious glances at the one silent figure slouched beside their leader wearing a halloween mask. Thanks to their small party, they moved quickly and it wasn’t long before they were outside the fence along the rival rebels’ base.

“Alright, men,” Tord addressed the group with a harsh glare and a barely retained smirk. “You know the drill. My friend here,” he motioned to Tom who’d already jumped out of the vehicle and stalked over to the fence. “Will be going first. This should be nice and easy.” The soldiers balked at the thought of a raid with a group this size being _easy_. The guy in the mask, whoever he was, must’ve really pissed off the Red Leader if he was going first. “After you,” the scarred man called out playfully to the masked stranger.

Tom sighed before he let his transformation drop, his purple horns tearing through the laytex mask. Immediately liquefying into shadow, he slipped under the fence, across the field armed with land mines, and into the base. Tord settled against the vehicle with a full-blown grin.

“What the fuck,” breathed one of the soldiers. About a minute later and explosion blew out the windows of one side of the facility and shouts could faintly be heard despite the distance between the base and the ambush unit. Gunshots grew in volume but were drowned out by a massive roar. Smoke fled the building through the shattered windows in a rush as a powerful scent of burning plastic flooded the air. Abruptly, a tank busted through the concrete wall nearest Tord’s unit and rolled along the mine field setting off dozens of tiny explosions in its wake. The tank, still flipping end over end, tore right through the fence and losing momentum, ploughing roughly into the dirt fifteen feet to the right of the soldiers.

Gesturing to the path of scraped up and disheveled land the tank had created, Tord turned to his soldiers. “The land mines have been disabled, stay on the path and you don’t get blown up. You know what to do.” The Red Leader led his soldiers up to the structure stealthily. Although it was somewhat unnecessary. The enemy wouldn’t notice the incoming revolutionaries if they had a full marching band accompanying them, not with Tom keeping everyone so preoccupied. Tord peaked around the corner of the hole blown in the wall to get a quick survey of what they were dealing with.

Not many soldiers left in the area, probably ran to either the armory or somewhere to hide. Tom had, apparently also vacated the area, likely trying to find a larger group of victims. By the time the communist caught up with his demon contractor, the fully transformed Brit was lazily dangling a shrieking soldier upside by his foot, looking uninterested even as his captive sobbed repeatedly for mercy.

“Found yourself a toy, did you?” Tord asked teasingly. The large beast only narrowed it’s one hollow eye socket at the sight of the Red Leader. Tom carelessly dropped his victim at Tord’s feet with a low grunt. Spotting the many embellishments on the soldier’s uniform, Tord realized it was the commanding officer. “Oo! For me? Good find!” He chirped as he hauled his new hostage up by the collar. “This will be very useful.” Looking back up to his once-nemesis, the Norski grinned. “You’ve done well. Feel free to eat your fill and leave.” The revolutionary turned away, dragging the traumatized soldier behind him. A dark shadow shot past him, likely to wherever the largest grooup of souls were. Chuckling to himself, Tord’s mind drifted to other thoughts.

_Not a late morning shower person then._

Next week, Tord tried at night. Knowing Tom’s insomniac habits, chances are he wouldn’t be in bed until very late, meaning the Red Leader had to be patient. He’d spent the entire day slightly on edge, the excitement at possibly achieving his goals keeping him antsy. By 11 PM, the decided summoning time, Tord was worn out from being so alert, dragging a small knife along his fingertip and fighting back a yawn as he mumbled the right latin words. The revolutionary pulled himself together, burying all of his tiredness and weakness beneath an easy smirk, just as the demon appeared next to him.

“-PUT IT DOWN RIGHT N-” Tom paused mid-shout as he took quick stock of his surroundings. He whirled on Tord, holding out a hand. “I need a phone.” Tord only raised an eyebrow at the obviously frustrated Brit. “Matt thinks all glitter is edible now and is about a minute away from poisoning himself so badly he’s going to have to go to the hospital and get his stomach pumped. He can’t afford that and his biweekly photo shoots so to keep him from moping about how health care cuts into his self worship schedule I need a phone.” Tom explained impatiently.

Tord stifled a giggle, trying to mask it with a more masculine chuckle, and dug out one of his burner phones which he promptly dropped into the humonster’s outstretched hand.

Within moments Tom was back to shouting, this time into the phone’s receiver, ignoring his contractor once more. “Matt, MATT. YOU’RE GOING TO LOSE YOUR PHOTO BOOTH PRIVILEGES. NO- MATT, IT’S-” The alcoholic groaned and slapped his hand over his face. “Matt, if you get your stomach pumped, you won’t be able to pay Jessica to take pictures of you all the time, now would you?” A horrified gasp from the other end of the call was loud enough for Tord to hear from where he was standing. A blubbering, high pitched whine followed. “That’s right, Matt,” evidently the whine had been words. “Go to Edd now. He actually gives a damn.” A whimper in response. Tom sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sure, Matt. I don’t hate you.” 

The demon knew exactly when to move the phone away from his ear as a loud screech of “ **POPULAR!** ” maxed out the volume of the speakers on the phone. With that, the humonster ended the call. Tossing the burner back to Tord, Tom shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets and stared at his contractor expectantly.

There was a quip on the tip of Tord’s tongue, about how nothing had changed, but he held it back. It would’ve been a lie. _Everything had changed_. He’d left. He’d started a revolution. He’d tried to kill these people. He really _didn’t_ know them anymore. It used to be Tom wouldn’t have intervened in Matt’s idiotic ideas that led to self harm. The alcoholic would let his pseudo-friend inadvertently harm himself and simply laugh at his pain as he swallowed down another burning mouthful of liquor. _When was the last time Tord had seen Tom drink?_ Usually the Brit always had a flask on him but, as of late-

“I’m putting together a stealth unit to work in conjunction with you on raids and infiltration missions. While none of them can melt into the shadows quite like you can I still need you to learn to work with them as a team.” Tord answered Tom’s unasked question, forcing himself to stop dwelling on the sense of home that he’d long since lost. The Red Leader showed his demonic contractor to the training facility where a group of soldiers in full stealth gear stood waiting. 

_Roughly 11 PM is a no then._


	14. Three In the Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom just wants to attend to his basic needs. Sleep, eat, bathe- all without being impeded. Thanks.

Tom blinked in surprise as a familiar sensation washed over him. He knew _this_. He was about to be teleported to wherever the hell Tord was to participate in some mission he didn’t give a shit about. The past two or so months, the humonster had gotten well acquainted with the sudden loosening of his molecules, as though his body were transmuting from a solid to a gas, that signaled he was about to be summoned. For the life of him, Tom couldn’t figure out the intent behind Tord’s schedule as, as far as he could tell, he’d never been summoned at the same time of the day more than once.

Beyond the time of day, it was always the same pattern. At first his _everything_ would start to vibrate and he’d feel like his body was unraveling. Then he’d be in an infinite void devoid of sensation: nothing to see, taste, touch, smell, hear- floating in what could very likely pass for hell had Tom not visited it already all those years ago. Finally, he’d suddenly be in a world full of stimuli again, not the least of which was Tord, standing in front of him and looking over him expectantly. Tom wasn’t sure what the Red Leader was looking for but, evidently, he’d yet to see it as he was always mildly disappointed when he just saw Tom. The Brit didn’t know what to make of it. Did Tord think that there was a chance that Tom could be switched out with another demon in the summoning process on accident, like Satan himself or some buxom bat-winged girl straight out of his hentai? Because that wasn’t how demon contracts worked. Fortunately, none of the times he’d been summoned so far had been for an _emergency_ and even if the times were incredibly random and followed no discernible pattern, they’d never inconvenienced the demon.

Right now, however, was an exceptionally _unfortunate_ time to be summoned for Tom. The man had just enough time to snatch a towel before he was, once again, floating in the hellish, sensationless void that could very likely drive him insane were he to stay there for an hour. Then, suddenly he was standing behind a battlement as shells whizzed past and through his almost corporeal form. He was able to crouch behind the cover just as his body fully materialized and became something a viable target for the bullets flying overhead. Grumbling, Tom wrapped the towel around his waist and surveyed the scene.

Crouched in front of him was Tord along with a few of his soldiers, attention focused on the fire fight in front of them, which meant that none of them had looked back yet and realized he’d been summoned mid-shower. _At least he finally knew what an “emergency” looked like_.

Without wasting another moment, Tom let himself shift before melting into his shadow form. Skating quickly along the jagged battlefield, under debris and the bodies of casualties, the monster arrived at the enemy lines. It looked like the group he’d attacked that first time Tord had summoned him, some rival army. Frankly Tom hadn’t been paying all that much attention at the time. The demon carefully slipped around the troops, making sure they wouldn’t notice the strange pool of shadows sneaking past. He stopped beneath the feet of a man decked out in medals and decor beseeching his rank. Bracing himself, the demon pushed his essence into the man somewhat subtly cowering behind his soldiers.

The unfamiliarity of this body caused Tom to pitch forward with a groan. This body felt _gross_. Possessing people always felt gross but this guy’s body was especially uncomfortable. The skin was too tight, too itchy- it was hard to breathe. Everything felt wrong. There was an aching compulsion to just peel off his new skin, fleshy, blood-soaked piece by fleshy, blood-soaked piece, but Tom had a mission to accomplish. He felt a hand land on his shoulder and had to swallow back the bile rising in his throat. Just being in the skin was bad enough but being touched and experiencing the sensation through this awful, malformed skin mask was absolutely _nauseating_.

“Commander?” An unfamiliar voice asked, laced with worry. “Commander, are you okay?”

Tom wheezed out a single dry heave before tilting his face to look at the soldier. “Fuck off!” he growled out in an even more unfamiliar voice. It felt disgusting, as though he actually had vomited the words. Honestly, The Exorcist made so much more sense now. Tom would absolutely _love_ to projectile vomit on a priest right now.  
A loud gasp sounded in the demon’s ear and he fought to wrench his eyes open. “Y-your eyes, sir! Where are your eyes?!”

Tom would’ve sighed if he didn’t expect the action to result in him emptying this foreign stomach’s contents onto the ground in front of him. One of these days he’s going to sue all the horror movies that made a big deal about getting your eyeballs scooped out. He was born this way and he never asked to make all the other kids in his class cry at the sight of his eye sockets, thanks. It was even worse when someone would accuse him of undergoing risky cosmetic surgery just to look _edgy_. Yeah, he totally just decided that the genuinely debilitating experience of not having eyeballs was totally a price he was willing to pay in order to pass for some alternative sub-cultures’ idea of cool.

He swayed on the unfamiliar feet beneath him again, forgetting to maintain balance with all of his focus on the scorching bile bubbling in the back of his mouth. The soldier caught him in his arms and dragged him behind a structure to what looked like a command tent. He was dumped into a chair before he slowly slid his gaze over the soldiers around him. This looked like everyone important. He gratefully let himself drain from the commander’s body back into a puddle of darkness on the ground. Tom breathed a sigh in relief. It felt good to be himself again.

Stretching his shadow body out, Tom fought back the desire to purr. Well, _time to get to work_.

\----

Tord cursed as he ducked back behind the concrete barrier. He and his men were pinned down. _Where was Tom?_ The Red Leader bit his lip as he reloaded his gun. Had he pronounced the Latin wrong? Surely he had to have gotten good at spitting out those ancient words by now. He’d certainly shed enough blood. Was there some rule that Tord had forgotten? Growling, he glared over the edge of his cover to try and gauge the number of enemies still standing. _Too many_.

“So this is what an emergency looks like, huh?” A voice called from beside Tord. The Norski blinked in surprise before turning to look at the man sitting loosely with his back against the barrier next to him. It was Tom. His posture was entirely too relaxed for a battlefield and he was- _he was wearing the uniform of one of the rival soldiers_? The Brit dug around in one of the pockets of the uniform before pulling out a walkie talkie. “Belongs to the head honcho guy, use it to direct them into a trap or something.” Seemingly content with his job done, Tom pulled a towel off his shoulder and started to work on his hair. Where in the world did Tom get that, why was he wearing the enemy’s uniform, and why was he towelling off his hai-

Tord gaped in realization, his one good eye widening as he stared at Tom. _Holy shit._ His gaze darted up and down Tom’s form before he bit back a curse. _He missed it! He **fucking** missed it!_ He wrenched his robotic arm upwards and tore open a panel that hid a built in atomic watch. It was three in the afternoon.

_Who the hell showers at three in the afternoon?_

Tord picked up the walkie talkie next to him. Barking a lie about reinforcements coming from behind into it, he sent a wary glance at his personal hell dog. “Have you eaten your fill?”

Those hollow eye sockets that sent shivers up his spine glanced upward to meet his gaze. “More or less. I got most of the high ranking officers. They usually have a pretty bitter taste so it really squelches my appetite.”

Tord blinked in surprise. “Souls have flavors?”

Tom froze momentarily, apparently torn about inadvertently providing more (albeit mostly useless) information to his contractor. He relaxed again after a second, seeming to decide Tord couldn’t do him any more harm with the information. “Yup. Some are more distinctive than others. Some people taste like chalk. Others taste like a dump truck full of cinnamon.” There was a wry twist to his tone, like he was telling a joke and the revolutionary had missed the punchline. It must’ve been obvious that Tord was fiercely curious about his own soul’s flavor from the look on his face because the demon snorted in a less than affectionate matter at the sight of it.

“Can you tell a soul’s flavor without consuming it?” The Red Leader prompted.

“Yup,” Tom replied lazily. When he didn’t go ahead and answer Tord’s unasked question, Tord knew he’d have to be more direct.

“So what does mine taste like?” Tord asked.

“Yours is absolutely lethal,” the demon responded vaguely. Tom apparently decided that was the end of the conversation as he melted into shadow form and slipped away. The revolutionary was left alone to scrutinize whether or not he liked the answer he’d received.


	15. Nap Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom gets more sleep.
> 
> Not willingly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took a little longer. Midterms are happening.

Tord had to wait a week to take advantage of his newfound knowledge concerning Tom’s shower schedule, which was fine because it was about time he moved onto the next item on his list. He waited until he knew both of the men weren’t in their apartment before he let himself in. Ringo hissed at him in greeting before flicking his tail haughtily and marching away with his head held high. Tord growled back before proceeding into the apartment similarly. The man reviewed the information Kate had given him before sprawling across Tom’s couch. He wiggled around, getting comfortable before he finally settled with a sigh. Now all he had to do was wait.

_Tord glanced warily at the mason jar the small blonde child had handed him._

_"How do you feel about perfume?" Kate asked with a wicked grin._

_"It is just another filthy industry getting rich off of humanity's insecurities and-"_

_"Sure, whatever. How do you feel about wearing perfume?" The blonde interrupted._

_"I don't care," Tord replied._

_"Then you'll definitely like this," Kate replied with a smirk._

Tom returned with arms full of groceries about half an hour later. The humonster didn’t notice the revolutionary, walking right past the couch to set the bags on the table. He opened up a cabinet to start unloading his groceries when he froze. Face tilted up into the air, Tom’s eyebrows furrowed as he hesitantly sniffed. Dropping the loaf of bread he’d been putting away, the Brit swallowed back a deep inhale. His eye sockets fluttered shut and his shoulders sagged as the scent overtook his senses. Spinning on a single foot and staggering forward, the alcoholic let his nose guide him to the succulent aroma. He ended up at the foot at the couch.

Cracking his eyelids open, Tom growled. “What the fuck?” Tord opened his one good eye with a smirk.

“Oh, Tom! Hello. How can I help you?” There was an obvious sadistic twist to his tone.

“Why do you-” the humonster’s hands clenched at his sides and he bared his teeth, already starting to sharpen into fangs. “ _smell_?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Tord replied teasingly. He shifted slightly and grinned when Tom flinched as another wave of the scent hit him. “Why, Tom, are you okay?”

“Fuck you,” the Brit hissed, sharpened incisors biting down on the inside of his cheek. Blood colored his tongue and his whole body shook. “ _Why do you **smell**?_ ” His voice was laden with gravel and something that sounded an awful lot like rage.

“Tom,” Tord replied easily, his face back to the picture of innocence, “I really don’t know what you’re referring to.” He fought tooth and nail to keep a smirk from blossoming on his lips. “Perhaps-”

The air was knocked out of him as Tom collapsed on top of him. Burrowing his face into Tord’s neck, the humonster gulped down air. The revolutionary bit his lip to keep from giggling in delight. He knew he’d already promised Kate Australia, but a thank you card in the meantime couldn’t hurt. He failed to stifle a giggle when he saw purple striped horns start to sprout from in between Tom’s spiked, sandy locks. He’d never had a chance to examine the possessed one in his demon form so closely. Usually, the alcoholic was too quick, darting through shadows and moving from one target to the next with such efficiency, for the revolutionary to really get a good look. Now, however, was the perfect time for a little observational study.

The horns were about the same length as Tom’s absurdly spiked hair and almost would’ve passed for just another pair of gelled thorns if it weren’t for the candy cane like strips of lavender and purple swirling around the hard surface. Tord momentarily considered chipping off a piece to see if it was bone or enamel or something else entirely- but it wouldn’t be worth it. There were too many unknowns to risk breaking off a piece of the horn. Instead, the revolutionary shifted his attention elsewhere- to the short, solid black tail peeking out from underneath Tom’s hoodie. It lie flat against the humonster’s thigh, unmoving, but Tord entertained a fantasy of it wagging from side to side like that of a puppy.

A soft snort from the man sprawled across him let Tord know the alcoholic had fallen asleep. He didn’t bother to bite back a grin as he felt the flat faces of sharp teeth press lightly and accidentally against the juncture of his neck and shoulder and drool start to pool in the hollow of his collarbone. It was adorable. _This_ , Tord reminded himself, _this is just one of the many great things he was fighting for_. He was fighting for a world where he didn’t have to steal documents from government agencies just to prove what everyone already knew: that politicians were getting paid off to act in the interests of businesses rather than the people. A world where Tom didn’t have to drink himself numb to avoid the pain and the rage, to keep himself from feeling to much and feeling at all/ Tord was creating a world where he and Tom could just sit on a couch and take a nap.

A loud meow announced Ringo’s presence before he landed on Tom’s back. Tord and Ringo stared one another down for a long moment before the cat and the revolutionary decided to tolerate one another’s presence so long as the nap pile was preserved. The animal dug his claws into the blue hoodie, kneading it and slowly spinning in a circle, before he settled down and curled up like a croissant. Tord huffed, unimpressed with the cat’s display, before shifting slightly and sinking down further into the couch cushions.

He wasn’t sure when he drifted off but he knew exactly when he was awoken. A loud, almost insulted sounding gasp came from the doorway behind him. A quick survey of the scene around him proved that Tom remained on top of Tord, still breathing deeply and partially transformed. The pool of drool in his collarbone was full to the brim now. Ringo had moved from the humonster’s back to his head with the cat’s furry butt now resting against Tord’s cheek and his tail almost up Tord’s nose. The Norski’s face was probably covered in cat hair.

“Why wasn’t I invited?” An indignant cry was the only warning before Matt suddenly appeared over the group and flopped down on top of the residents of the couch. Ringo startled and hissed at the ginger but stayed on Tom’s head. Tord (denied that he ever) also hissed, throwing a pointed glare at the man still clutching a piece of toast covered in edible glitter. Tom huffed out a growl, his hot breath slipping under the collar of Tord’s shirt before he fell back into deep sleep. While the revolutionary adjusted to the additional weight bearing down on him, Edd walked into his sight range with a large frown.

The artist glared daggers at the Norski before his eyes skated over the three piled ontop of him. “You’re traitors, all of you!”

“Popular!” Matt cried out happily as he wiggled excitably.

Ringo mewled in greeting at the sight of his owner.

Tom snored a little louder, murmuring something that sounded like, _fucking christmas caroler_.

Tord grinned.


	16. Like The Munsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone remembers that one episode of the munsters where one of the characters almost bleeds out, right? No?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. Midterms and essays and scholastic hell all suddenly had me really, really distracted. Unfortuntately, finals are also super close by so don't get your hopes up for a quick update.

Despite the fact that he was a demon, actual denizen of hell, in a blood pact with a vicious militaristic, revolutionary leader unafraid of injuring millions in his quest for his perception of justice, Tom found his world hardly reflected the grueling hardships it should’ve. In theory, the Brit should be participating in absolute massacres once a week. He should be bathed in the blood of Tord’s enemies and the unlucky many that got caught in the crossfire as he tore through actual armies in order to disrupt the immoral complacency his contractor so often ranted about. Tom should be haunted by all the lives he was taking, darkness seeping into his already blackened soul like freezing rainwater soaks through an old jacket in a rainstorm. He should be trying to drown his floundering sense of morality, what little of it there was, in bottle after bottle of alcohol.

Instead, his life was feeling more like some kind of dark humor leaning sit-com, like the Munsters. There was a lot of death and Tom was certainly responsible for it, but none of his victims had been anything but deserving and inevitable. Rather than massacres and bloodbaths, the humonster was subjected to weird pranks by Tord capitalizing on his new demon-form and surprise glitterbaths from Matt. For example, when he’d woken up in a pile of bodies all stacked atop Tord- _who smelled like how an orgasm felt_ \- Tom had been understandably annoyed. Rolling out of the pile and onto the floor, the Brit glared at the pile and its occupants before grabbing his nose as the smell hit him again. Growling, he had stalked away and ignored whatever teasing shouts the Norski had called after him. He spent the rest of the week in Matt’s apartment, waiting for that goddamn smell to dissipate. It felt like a corny episode in a sit-com with a demon-schtick at his expense.

His life was far too relaxed considering the circumstances.

The operative word in that sentence being _was_.

Tom fell into his place in the universe with a grace he’d developed after repeated transports. His feet hit the ground softly and he raised his gaze to find his contractor. It was incredibly easy.

Lying on his back, Tord was gripping his stomach with a metal hand as blood slowly seeped out through his robotic fingers. He looked incredibly pale, a startling shade far too close to grey. Death was knocking without a doubt. Tom could smell it all around the revolutionary. His soul was diluted, the usual truckload of cinnamon down to the levels of a bowl of cinnamon toast crunch. Judging by the pool of dark red blood he laid in, Tord had been bleeding out for a while.

“Tom,” his weak voice couldn’t quite manage the nonchalant tone he’d been gunning for. “Look, I didn’t even have to cut a finger to summon you.” He let out a breathy chuckle and glanced down at the puddle of blood he was swimming in. Tom didn’t reply, watching Tord carefully. “Got ambushed. I’ll probably be fine. Lost a lot of good men in the attack. Dun’ wunna lose any more. I need you to end this.” A bit of red colored the Norski’s teeth. When he awkwardly swallowed, the Brit could assume it’d been a mouthful of blood he’d just pushed back down his throat. “ _Now_.”

Nodding, Tom released his human transformation without ceremony and dropped into the shadows. Racing across the battlefield, he quickly took note of the situation. There were, indeed, a lot of bodies. The majority bore Tord’s Red Army uniforms. Only one squadron of Red soldiers were left, crouched behind cover on the opposite side of the field that had become an impromptu warzone. They were surrounded, being closed in on from all sides. Two of the soldiers had abandoned their guns and were just clutching one another and sobbing. Another was staring silently at a picture of what was probably their family. They had a minute left at most before their enemy would be upon them.

Stretching his shadow form out beneath the last of Tord’s soldiers, the humonster waited for the final attack. As the first of the enemy soldiers stepped onto Tom, the Brit let a rather malicious chuckle slip past his non-existent lips. The approaching opposition froze in place at the sound. Tom decided this was as good a time for a dramatic entrance as any. His shadow-bodied bubbled violently as he drew it together in front of the first soldier. Pure darkness quickly amassed, stretching and groaning up towards the sky until it reached about the height of a two story building. It then tightened, becoming a clear, crisp image of a giant two-horned demon with one large, gaping eye socket like a black hole.Taking in a deep breath, air whistling as it passed through large, charcoal grey fangs, Tom let out a roar that blew back the soldiers approaching from that direction. Spinning on his feet, he leapt over the tiny encampment the Red soldiers were in to face the next closest group. Tom dropped onto all fours and charged at the group with his mouth wide open. Not seeing his attack coming, he managed to scoop the group into his maw and swallow them whole without incident.

Letting himself shift to his most natural form, Tom slowly approached Tord’s soldiers with his hands shoved in his hoodie’s pocket and his hair blowing wildly around his horns. “Get back to To- _Red Leader_. He is in need of serious medical attention. He’s on the other side of the field. I’ll handle the rest of this,” he declared, nodding to the leftover enemies looking at him anxiously.

The soldiers obeyed his order, scurrying away, although Tom could’ve sworn he’d heard a whisper of _”Blue Leader”_. He really hoped he was wrong. He did not need to be any more affiliated with this revolutionary group. Tom was just a…. _contractor_ , an outside contractor.

The sound of gunfire filled his ears and he brought up his forearms just in time to deflect the bullets being fired at him. Growling, the Brit let his sixth sense guide him to his next victim. A woman holding a smoking gun, having just fired at him, who smelled of maraschino cherries. He was in the mood for something rather sweet, after all. Bracing himself against the ground, Tom pushed off and was propelled immediately to her position. In midair, he shifted into a mass of shadows that swallowed the woman whole as he landed on top of her. He rose back out of his shadow form sporting her helmet and licking at his sharp teeth. She’d been quite sweet indeed.

As much fun as it would’ve been to draw it out and savor each and every individual flavor, the demon really needed to get back and check on Tord. Melting into a pool of shadows, he carefully stretched himself into a long line making sure to direct himself under the feet of every last enemy soldier. Once he’d connected them all, he drew them all in up to their ankles, holding them in place. Confused shouts quickly morphed into terrified screams as he went down the line swallowing soldiers one by one until none were left. A myriad of flavors hit him, not all of them pleasant. As an aftertaste of burnt leather and orange juice haunted him, Tom took off across the field to find the soldiers gathered around Tord.

At the demon’s arrival, the underlings all stood at attention. “We called in a medevac unit but there’s no way they’re going to get here in time,” one explained worriedly. 

“Please save him, Blu- sir!” Another cried out. 

Sighing, Tom looked over Tord, who had apparently fallen unconscious. That was probably for the best. What he was going to do next in the very least probably felt gross to a normal person. At the very worst it could actually mentally break someone. Tom wasn’t really sure which was more likely. Gathering the dying man in his arms, the humonster nodded to the soldiers before melting into shadow form and taking Tord with him. It was strange, holding a body in the darkness with him and not digesting it immediately. Fascinatingly enough, Tord’s body seemed to fall into stasis in Tom’s hold. Tom could no longer sense the cinnamon wafting out of him and into the nether incrementally. Instead the pitiful amounts of him that was left seemed contained by the shadows around him. Remembering the crucial nature of the situation, Tom set off towards the base-- his speed in shadow form far outpacing anything the soldiers could’ve done.


	17. Let's Just Watch TV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh Shit. It only took seventeen chapters and almost 25,000 words but the shit you probably started reading for is finally starting to happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I tell someone this would be up multiple weeks ago? Hah.

Tom frowned at the two men in uniforms standing in front of him and blocking his escape. Each stared at him with wide, imploring eyes. He groaned and ran his hand through his hair. “Okay,” the humonster said around a sigh. “First of all, why the hell are you wearing those in public? You’re internationally wanted criminals. Secondly, the hell? Why would he want me there? I’m not in the mood for some practical joke bullshit just to make him feel better.”

“It’ll be fine,” Pat replied with a shaky smile that Tom didn’t buy for half a second.

“The boss asked for you,” Paul continued. “And I don't give three shits what kind of contract you have with him, a contract is a contract and that makes him your boss. So you go.”

Tom narrowed his eye sockets at the pair. “You, and I need you to listen to me very carefully because I don't want you getting this confused, you _never_ tell me what to do. I am a literal demon and, unless you'd like to see me start acting like one first hand, I recommend backing the fuck off. You do **not** tell me where to go or when. I may have a contract with your leader but I am not one of you. I do not answer to you. If you try to treat me like one of the cronies under you I will tear your soul out of your body and swallow it whole before your eyes,” Tom growled. With that the eyeless man shoved past the two in the hall to get back to his apartment.

Paul and Pat exchanged a glance. “I think I peed a little bit,” Pat declared.

“Honestly, I'm just sad the red leader didn't get to see that,” Paul mused. “I think he would've gotten a real joy out of seeing his crush be so terrifying.”

“And by a real joy you mean a boner, right?” The other soldier teased.

Paul just stared at the man in silence.

Meanwhile, Tom barged into his apartment with a scowl. He wasn't sure why the one soldier’s words pissed him off so much, but everything felt off kilter now. Grumbling to himself, the humonster curled his nails into his palm. The demon was itching for a fight. 

And, really, there was only one person who could give him a decent one. 

He told himself it wasn't because he was asked to visit. Frankly, he just needed to throw a punch at someone to restore his equilibrium and no one's face was more deserving than Tord’s. Tom would go. He'd wait for Tord to piss him off (which would not take long). Then he'd punch Tord in the face, probably, because being hospitalized isn't a good enough reason to stop Tom from punching an absolute douche in the face. Finally, he'd leave feeling better. And all would be right with the world.

Tord smiled as Tom walked through the door, a weirdly bright grin lighting up his scarred face. It was very out of place on the revolutionary leader, moreso because the Brit could tell this wasn’t one of those plastic Barbie smiles Tord liked to flash before threatening someone’s life. This was a genuine, bonafide _I am happy for reasons that in no way pertain to world domination or the suffering of others_ smile.

“What the hell do they have you on?” Tom asked curiously as he slouched against the wall next to the door.

“Tom! I’m so glad you came,” Tord giggled as his head lolled to the side loosely. “‘M on, ah, Vicodin. They’re such a _pretty blue_ , like, mm, like your _eyes_.”

“Uh-huh.” Tom said slowly, deciding to not comment. “Apparently you’ve been asking for me. Why?”

“Pfft,” the revolutionary snorted loudly. “Obviously ‘s ‘cause I wanted ta see you. Classic stupid _Tom_.”

Tom narrowed his eye sockets. “Okay, but _why_?”

“I,” Tord declared with a regal lilt to his voice. He paused dramatically, his chin tilted high into the air, before dissolving into giggles and melting into the loosest posture the Brit had ever seen him have. “I always want to see you,” the soldier purred.

The humonster tried to think of a reasonable response to something like that. Hell, he was still waiting for Tord to belatedly exclaim something like, “in pain” or “dead” to finish his sentence but, when Tord offered no such punchline, the demon was left floundering. “Uh,” he murmured, “okay… well, you saw me so I’m just gonna _go_.” The humonster inched towards the door, hand groping blindly for the handle.

“Nooooo,” Tord whined, jolting upright and falling out of bed. “You can’t leave! You _just got here_!”

“I really should head out,” Tom reiterated as his fingers finally found the handle.

Tord’s eyes watered for a long moment before he burst into loud, unnerving laughter. Tom may or may not have flinched. “It’s cute how you think you have a choice.” The man pressed a small button on his robotic arm which triggered some kind of crazy ass laser grid over the door and window. The Brit stumbled away from the door quickly while his contractor burst into laughter once more. “You’re adorable! And, now, we have to hang out! Wooo! Tord and Tom time! Just like the old days!” Tom scowled while Tord motioned towards a chair by his bedside. “Sit and talk to me! Heh, sit.” The Norwegian flopped backwards on his bed and stared at the ceiling. “Have I ever told you that our current situation reminds me a lot of a bunch of animes?”

Tom wished he had eyes to roll in response to that question. Instead he just settled for grumbling, “no,” as he sat in the chair Tord had offered.

“Sometimes our life is like Inuyasha. You’re a surly half demon with anger issues and general emotional constipation and I'm just a teenage girl who fell down a magic time travelling well that also happens to be the reincarnation of a woman you once loved before she sealed you away and killed herself in the process,” Tord declared whimsically.

Tom frowned. “I really don't see any correlation between that and our lives aside from me being a demon. “

“No, Inuyasha wouldn't. I, on the other hand, being Kagome, am certainly perceptive enough to see it for what it is,” Tord rambled proudly.

“A terrible comparison? A side effect of you being high on painkillers? A complete and total misunderstanding of the demon contract we made?” Tom offered casually.

Tord glared at the ceiling with his one good eye, mind seemingly elsewhere. “And other times,” he spoke softly, almost as though he was speaking to himself rather than the demon at his bedside. “Other times we’re living the story of Kuroshitsuji.”

“Yeah,” Tom responded anyway, “Well sometimes it feels pretty shitty.”

“Black Butler. The story of a young boy who saw his parents get murdered and wanted vengeance so badly he made a deal with a devil. His soul in exchange for the demon's help destroying those who hurt his parents.” Tord’s eyebrows furrowed. “He was just a child and yet he gave up the rest of his life to pursue his darkness. He could've moved on. He had all the resources to rebound and live a long happy life in spite of his past. He chose not to. He chose his duty to his parents over his own happiness and life.” Tom stayed silent. This comparison was certainly less of a stretch. “I never liked my parents,” Tord said abruptly, loud, as though he had just realized that fact. He wiggled violently in his bed until he lay facing Tom. “Tell me about your parents,” he demanded petulantly.

“Welp,” Tom said around a sigh. “I was born to a sentient pineapple and bowling ball. They both weren't a part of my life for very long so I can't say much else about them.”

“How do a pineapple and a bowling ball have a human child?”

Tom shrugged. “Who's to say I really am human? Maybe I just look like one. I mean, I'm certainly not one anymore. Maybe I just coincidentally looked like one to begin with. Stranger things have happened.”

Narrowing his one grey eye at Tom, Tord hummed. “You said they weren't a part of your life for very long. Is it possible that your childhood trauma of losing them so young warped your perception of them in your mind?”

Tom blinked in surprise. He didn't know how to answer that. He didn't know how to think about that. His entire body froze up as his mind tried to dissect itself. Who the hell were his parents?

“Did they abandon you? If they did, I'll hunt them down and make them pay,” Tord abruptly declared springing into a sitting position. “I'll server off the number years they left you alone in fingers and toes.”

“No,” Tom mumbled absently on autopilot. “They're both dead. Dad was shot by a bear and mom committed suicide.”

Tord frowned, his body swaying violently as he tilted his head to look at Tom. “Shot by a bear?”

“We were having a picnic. Matt gave a bear a gun,” Tom answered lamely, his mind still elsewhere. He was too steeped in existential panic to realize what he'd just said. 

“Matt got your father killed?” Tord asked in a low voice, his face darkening with anger. “Matt as in once tried to submit his face as a flavor in one of those online potato chip flavor tournaments? Matt as in the guy who stuffed a toaster full of flour trying to make pancakes? Matt as in the person whom you've been friends with for the majority of your life-- Matt caused you to lose your parents?”

Tom shrugged absently. “His parents took pity on me. Let me live in their basement. Had to get my own food but it worked. I had a roof and a door that locked. It was enough.”

Evidently Tord didn't agree. The revolutionary was seething, flames practically licking off his form. “I'm going to kill Matt.”

Tom sighed, giving up on trying to figure out whether his parents had actually been a pineapple and bowling ball at all. That was something he'd revisit when absolutely shit faced, thanks. “Don't kill Matt.”

Tord awkwardly flailed as he tried to roll out of the hospital bed. “I'm going to kill Matt.”

“There's no point,” Tom replied.

“He hurt you!” Tord hissed as he jerkily spun around to glare at Tom.

Tom shrugged. “A lot of people have hurt me. A lot of people have hurt him. Everyone gets hurt. That's life. It's shitty.”

“It shouldn't be!” Tord raged, his arms flying up in anger. “Pain and suffering to this extent shouldn't be expected, shouldn't be a given. This world is so fucking broken, Tom. Everyone I care about keeps getting hurt and I can't do anything about it. I couldn’t. But once I'm in control, no one will get hurt anymore.”

Tom blinked in surprise. He'd never actually known Tord’s reasons for world domination. He'd always assumed it was something dumb like wanting more power so he could bully others. Now it almost sounded like Tord wanted to protect everyone else from the bully that was life.

“I'll fix it all. The shitty government, the shitty economy, the shitty race relations, the shitty civil rights problems-- I'll prove to the world that communism works, that humanity is capable of working together cohesively, that Stalin was just a greedy idiot who didn't understand the theory he supposedly supported!” Tord whirled again to face Tom and brace his arms on the humonster’s shoulders.”Lenin hated him, you know. Don't let Stalin take over, he said before he died but _no_ , Trotsky didn't have the drive even though he was the best man for the job and he let Stalin steamroll him. Well I'm not like Stalin and I'm no Trotsky either. I'm going to make it work, beyond the theories, so that humanity can come together and live together in peace.”

Tom blinked slowly. He'd never hidden that he was a true blue pessimist. The Brit always expected the worst because that was what life tended to throw at him. He'd always assumed, simply because Tord (like Tom himself) was an asshole, that Tord was a pessimist too. Pessimists had a tendency of being assholes. Tord, evidently, was the furthest thing from a pessimist. He was an unbridled, incredibly passionate optimist who happened to be severely lacking in the morals department. All of Tord’s schemes and plans, all the pain he's caused and the lives he's taken, it was all in the name of an impossible utopia.

It was idiotic. Tord was an absolute idiot. A strange bubbling warmth welled in Tom’s chest somewhere that he couldn't identify. It was kind of like-- _Oh hell **no**._

_It was almost like Tom found that optimism attractive._

Tom roughly pushed Tord’s arms off him, trying to increase the distance between them and hide his flushed face. “How about, “ he began his gaze falling to a TV remote, “we watch some TV like the good ol’ days.” Without waiting for a response, the man turned the TV on and started flipping through channels. 

He only came here to punch Tord in the face. He did not want this really unfortunate revelation.


	18. Angry Misanthropes Are Attracted To One Another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *shifty eyes*  
> *whispers*  
>  _toxic masculinity_  
>  *runs and hides*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love how you're all acting like this is *it*, like I don't have another fifteen or so chapters of Tom being in denial first.
> 
> Also to the comment by Tsil_Ennog about someone else having the same idea about Tom's parents? I had no idea about that. I'm not exactly active when it comes to fandoms. I kind of just... write shitty fanfics that I try really hard not to forget exist? But that is super cool. If the Zachary person you were talking about was Zachary Jack, then thank you very much for sharing because after you comment I did a little digging in the parts of the internet that scare me and I found Zachary Jack's art and am delighted. If the Zachary you were talking about was not Zachary Jack... thank you anyway? Anyway, the Tom parents thing wasn't meant to be a shout out to anyone's theories in particular. It was just a dark thought that popped into my head when I was supposed to be concentrating on my psychopathology lecture.

Tom angrily slammed the door to his apartment and dove onto his couch in a perfect belly flop. He groaned loudly as he buried his face into the pillows. Edd awkwardly coughed from where he was sitting at the kitchen table. Tom whined again in response before picking his head up from the cushions.

“Edd,” he mumbled. “Can I please get really, really drunk?”

The brunette frowned. “Tom,” he said softly. “That isn’t a good idea.”

“I need to,” Tom groaned a bit like a teenager as he shoved his face back into the pillows.

Edd moved to sit on the couch beside Tom’s prone form. “Why do you need to get drunk?”

“Because I don’t want to feel,” the half-demon huffed.

“So you want to relapse into alcoholism because of _feelings_ ,” Edd said slowly.

“What if, and I know this sounds _crazy_ ,” the brunette laid a hand on Tom’s shoulder, “we _talk_ about these feelings instead?” Tom groaned as his friend slapped his hands to his face in mock shock. “My God! It-- It’s brilliant! Revolutionary! I should patent this idea!” He declared sarcastically.

Tom frowned. “What if I don’t want to talk about it?”

“Well you can’t run away from them with alcohol,” Edd mused, “so either keep feeling all gross while sober like you are now or confront them with me.”

The humonster sighed and rolled onto his side. “Fine, you asked for this.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Remember my parents? What they were?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Well, someone pointed out to me that it was possible that they weren’t sentient objects, that, because of the trauma of losing them so young, my memories might’ve gotten… _mixed up_.”

“Oh shit,” Edd whispered.

“I guess it’s easier to think I saw the splattered remains of a pineapple than a human head.” Tom murmured.

“Oh shit,” Edd repeated, louder.

“You asked for this,” Tom reminded him.

“I know and it is good that we’re talking about this. Bottling up thoughts like that has to hurt.”

“I mean, I genuinely don’t know if they were-- well,” Tom trailed off. “I might not ever know.”

“Or,” Edd chimed in. “We might.” He stood up and left the room for a minute. Tom stewed in silence until the door slammed back open to reveal a brightly smiling ginger. He clutched a large photo album in his arm that looked as though it weighed more than Tom’s TV. Edd stood in the doorway behind Matt, trying to shoot Tom a covert thumbs up. The eyeless man groaned.

“Edd said we were going to look at a bunch of pictures of me?” Matt asked excitedly as he loudly dropped the album onto the kitchen table.

“Yeah, especially the ones from when you were younger-- maybe somewhere between the ages of two and six?” Edd said in a voice that curled like the corners of the Cheshire Cat’s grin. Matt hummed happily as he started to flip through the pages of a smiling orange haired toddler. The two men at the table cooed at every picture and the moping humonster on the couch tuned them out to focus on his own internal turmoil. Everything was a mess inside his head. He was frazzled and confused, unable to keep up with all the half formed trains of thought rampaging through his consciousness. The only things he could recognize in the cacophony were two repeating subjects:

_his parents and Tord_.

In a weird twist of fate, for once thinking about the sort of friend/constant enemy he’d almost killed (and instead horrifically scarred and crippled) was easier on him than the alternative. Tom threw himself wholeheartedly into thinking about Tord so he wouldn’t have to think about a pineapple and a bowling ball.

Tord and Tom had never gotten along. At all. Ever. The two of them just clashed easily and often with sparks flying every time they butted heads. The eyeless man supposed they might’ve been a little too similar. Where Matt was too distracted by his own reflection to pay attention to the world and Edd was simply too much of an optimist to scowl at the world with the vigor Tom did, Tord was just as capable at subsisting off of nothing but spite and misanthropy like Tom. They both saw the world as hideous, so thoroughly broken and unfair that happiness ended up becoming the rarest nonrenewable resource. 

Tom and Tord were the two most likely to punch out a douche bag at the theme park; Tom and Tord were the two most likely to lock themselves in their rooms all day to blast Green Day and Linkin Park; Tom and Tord were the most likely to attend political rallies, most likely to scare old ladies with their culturally deviant behavior, most likely to scorn the frivolous and fraudulent _feel-good_ media which dealt positivity and joy like an opioid, most likely to scrawl angry prose in sharpie on bathroom stalls and brick walls, most likely to scream at the sky and curse the heavens, most likely to stockpile both weapons and knowledge on how to use them, most likely to run fast and hard and loud and go down fighting.

Tom and Tord were very similar.

Too similar and yet not similar enough.

Because Tom saw it all for the exercise in futility it was. He knew it didn’t matter how angry he got, how many times he voted for candidates outside the establishment, how many racists he got into bar brawls with. Nothing he did could solve the root of the problem-- the innate greed, cruelty, and hatred inborn in every human. There was no point to fighting against something eternal. It didn’t matter what you did, there would always be suffering and pain. Wasting your life punching a brick wall is the kind of tortuous existence that the Greeks spun tragedies out of ( _here’s lookin’ at you, Sisyphus_ ). Einstein once said “insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results” and Tord certainly seemed insane to Tom. Every flaming Molotov the Norski chucked at government buildings did nothing in the face of the infinite greed plaguing their species. 

Tom had always assumed it was a stubborness thing with Tord. Too stubborn to accept that he was powerless and insignificant. The humonster had looked down on Tord for that-- Tolstoy once said that “the only absolute knowledge attainable by man is that life is meaningless” and when Tom could form an entire argument against everything a person stands for out of nothing but Einstein and Tolstoy quotes that are probably on the walls of some edgy teenage nerd’s bedroom, well, he certainly wasn’t going to respect them.

Which is why the recent insight into Tord’s drive had been so _jarring_ for Tom. It wasn’t stubbornness or a denial of the nihilistic doctrine embraced by the sane-- It was hope. Tord, in a weird, twisted way, had hope for the world and humanity that Tom didn’t. Tord genuinely believed there was a battle to be fought, that if he just dug deep enough, worked himself hard enough-- he could change the world and the people in it. He was an optimist and a defender. He wanted the world to be safe for the people he cared about. 

Tord certainly wasn’t a good man. He had hurt too many, killed too many. Tord had done irreversible damage to so many people’s lives, but he did it in the name of a future where no one would have to get hurt like this by him or anyone else ever again. Tom didn’t think such a future was possible but he wouldn’t deny how nice imagining such a time felt. Somehow it was the knowledge that Tord was just as aware as Tom of the state of humanity and yet he still had hope that made the humonster feel… _things_.

And Tom didn’t like feeling. Feelings were gross, feelings were weaknesses that the world could exploit so it could push you to the ground and keep you there, maybe spit on you a little for shits and giggles. Only apathy could combat the all encompassing cruelty. That was the reason for the alcohol-- it’s so much easier to give no shits when absolutely shit faced.

“Tom!” The Brit was startled out of his thoughts by Edd’s voice. He glanced over at the brunette. Edd was furiously waving his arm in a beckoning motion. “Get over here,” he whispered harshly. Pushing himself up off the couch, the humonster stumbled towards the table. Matt was in the midst of some long, trivial anecdote about the hat he was wearing in one of the pictures on the page. Edd, ignoring the _incredibly impressive_ tale about a hand me down hat from someone who was _definitely_ royalty, _Matt was sure of it_ , vigorously gestured at one particular picture. In the foreground stood a very young Matt, sporting big eyes and a big smile as he posed next to a flower coated bush. Edd’s finger, however, was frantically jabbing, not at the image of a small ginger boy, but a slightly out of focus silhouette in the background. The figure was tall, with their back to the camera, and seemed to be in the midst of lifting a small child over their head playfully. The photograph managed to catch some of the details of the child’s face, enough to tell he’d been giggling madly in the air and that he had two empty black eye sockets for eyes.

Tom sucked in a shuddering breath.


	19. Spice Girls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay but, it isn't even that racy or anything but I was still just way too ace for this guys. I don't think I'm ever going to be capable of writing smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've kicked all my finals' asses and now I'm out in the free world again. Woo! Summer! Let's see what this does for my productivity vis a vis fanfiction.

Tord sucked in a violently shuddering breath as a long, hot tongue traced a burning trail up his torso. Sharp canines grazed his collarbone before digging into the juncture between his shoulder and neck. Some frankenstein hybrid between a purr and a groan escaped his throat as he felt the teeth puncture his skin and blood well up to meet that long, tortuous tongue. Laughing airily, the Norski dragged his hands up the body in front of his, ghosting his hands over broad shoulders and ears before burying them in tall, tousled hair. His thumb bumped against the hard, coarse surface of a horn. He felt those pearly daggers release him as the head in his grasp slowly lowered down his body. The revolutionary let loose a contented purr when he felt large claws settle over his hips. Another scorching trail licked up his thigh, stopping just short of the sensitive skin where his hips became legs. A sweltering pant of air flushed over his tender skin.

“Well?” Tord asked through a grin, a kind of haughty condescension coloring his tone.

A growled mumble responded and Tord tightened his grip on the hair between his fingers.

“Go ahead then,” the revolutionary answered back. He inhaled eagerly in anticipation and--

A loud crash startled Tord into a sitting position. His bullet wound immediately protested the sudden movement and so the Norwegian ended up clutching his cramping side. His eyes darted around the room he quickly recognized as one of the infirmaries in his bases. Standing over a sparking mess that had once been a TV (and was likely the source of his _rude_ wake up call), Paul and Patryck were wide eyed with their hands held up in the air, as though surrendering to the police. Tord slowly relaxed with the knowledge there were no threats in the room. 

Clearing his throat, Patryck let his hands slip behind his back as he shot Tord a sly grin. “Were you having a nice dream?” Tord resisted the urge to chuck something at Pat’s head. “Sounds like you're really looking forward to that no gag reflex thing,” his subordinate said cheekily. 

When Tord raised an eyebrow, Paul answered the unasked question. “You talk in your sleep,” he said simply. 

“ _Uggggh_ ,” Pat moaned as he sprawled against the wall, “ _mmmmmmhh, Tooooom_.”

Tord watched in revulsion. “You're actually _attracted_ to _that_?” He gestured vaguely in Pat’s direction while looking at Paul. 

The largely stoic man shrugged. “The heart wants what the heart wants,” he answered simply. 

“Which reminds me,” Pat interrupted, “you'd probably want to know about how Tom visited you while you were high on painkillers to check how you were doing.” Seeing Tord’s stunned look, the subordinate immediately followed up with, “don't worry, we're pretty sure you didn't confess to having dirty dreams about him.”

“Yeah, the audio logs only show you calling him the Inuyasha to your Kagome, getting really passionate about communism, sending him into something of an existential crisis about his parents, and threatening to kill the loud, ginger one,” Paul rattled off the list plainly, as though the items on it were as simple as groceries. 

Tord was already pulling up the logs using the controls on his robotic arm. “Log number?”

“1204-251.9303860,” Paul responded immediately. 

Pat grabbed his lover’s wrist and began to pull him towards the door. “We’ll give you and your _arm_ some privacy,” he called over his shoulder with a wink. Tord paid the two soldiers no mind as they left the room.

Their leader ignored the dirty joke in favor of activating the audio log. He listened to his own lilted speech and Tom’s occasional grunted replies. Evidently he did, in fact, call Tom the Inuyasha to his Kagome. He was certainly still going to kill Matt though.

“Don’t kill Matt,” Tom’s tired voice droned from the speakers.

Okay, so maybe Tord wouldn’t kill Matt. Yet. Tord would still make the ginger’s life hell though. He knew people. People who could do things. _Scary things_. The man made himself a mental note to contact certain people later. With that taken care of, Tord gave himself ten minutes to victoriously flail and celebrate Tom checking on him and it not ending in a series of assault charges. After that he would summon the demon to his side and kind of, sort of take advantage of Tom’s current emotional instability in order to endear Tord to him. It was perfect.

A quick run through of his **VICTORY** playlist and some very careful, _don’t exacerbate your injuries_ flailing later, Tord was ready to summon himself a demon. A few drops of blood dripped on the floor, spit some _sick_ Latin rhymes, give the universe enough time to bake and, _tadaaa_ , you’ve got yourself a demon.

Actually, it looked like Tord summoned a massive pile of blankets to him. He cleared his throat and the blankets suddenly came to life, writhing frantically.

“Why am I not wearing clothes?!” Before Tord could gear up for another session of victory flailing, he realized that was not the voice of a certain humonster. A second voice from under the blankets gasped loudly-- also not Tom. Tord could’ve sworn he heard a meow.

“I was summoned,” a tired voice answered-- _that_ was Tom. “Whatever I’m touching when I’m summoned gets taken with me.”

“How were you touching this many blankets but none of my clothing?” That first voice asked again. Tord was pretty sure that was Edd.

“Hold on,” Tom responded. The pile shook violently until the demon human hybrid tumbled out. The Brit glanced at Tord, sighed, and then pulled his blue hoodie off. Shoving the hoodie back into the blanket pile, Tom watched expectantly as the mass of fabric experienced another seizure. After a moment, Edd rolled free wearing nothing but Tom’s hoodie. Tord kind of really wanted to trade places with him. He would fight the brunette for that hoodie. Ringo freed himself from the fabric trap moments later and Matt gathered the blankets around him like the most regal of robes. Just like that Tord was alone in a room with the closest things to friends he’d ever had-- _you know, before he tried to sever all of his ties with them and kinda maybe sever their ties with life itself_.

“Well,” Tom broke the somewhat awkward tension, “now we know other people and cats can be summoned with me.”

“That _place_ we were in,” Edd groaned while repressing a shudder, “what was that?”

Tom shrugged. Matt twirled around a little bit, admiring the way his improvised robe moved. Ringo sneezed.

“Spaces between spaces,” Tord guessed.

As though abruptly remembering what exactly Tom getting summoned entailed, Edd spun to face Tord ad level him with a glare. Tord ignored the frowning brunette in favor of watching the ginger in the room with a cold focus, already formulating overly complicated revenge plots. Ringo sneezed again.

Tom made an attempt to shove his hands in his hoodie pocket before realizing he wasn’t wearing it anymore. He moved his hands to his jean pockets and glanced to Tord. “So why the summons?”

Tord glanced over to the demon and tried to put on a discerning smile. He quickly evaluated the demon and found the man didn’t look all that emotionally perturbed. There goes the _take advantage of emotionally fragile state_ plan. Tom was dry eyed (eye-socketed?) and his body language was as loose and casual as ever. By all appearances, the Brit was completely fine-- so long as you didn’t think about how he’d been summoned in the midst of a blanket burrito and cuddle pile. Tom raised an eyebrow and Tord needed a believable excuse. _Now_.

“I’ve heard most of the reports about the incident but there’s a fairly sizable hole of information. I was hoping you could fill in.” _Oh fuck yeah!_ That was super believable. Tord mentally scheduled another session of victory flailing for later.

Tom hummed in acknowledgment. “Let’s see,” he paused, “I showed up, you were bleeding out. You pointed me towards the last of your soldiers and told me not to let any of them die.” Edd seemed to flinch as he finally realize Tord was on a hospital bed with an IV in his arm. “I got rid of the enemy troops quickly, no survivors there, and sent your soldiers back to your position. When I caught up they’d called in a medical evacuation unit but you’d be dead before it arrived. So I went into my shadow form and swallowed you, sort of, then I carried you here.” It was all very matter of fact but part of Tord was still captivated by the story Tom weaved for him. Actually, he was mostly interested in one facet of the story.

“You held me in your melty black shadow body?” Tord asked curiously. _Damn, if only he’d been awake!_ The corner of Tom’s mouth quirked upwards in a smirk. _Ah, he’d said that aloud, hadn’t he?_

Tom shrugged. “It was for the best. Judging by previous reactions, it isn’t a fun place to be conscious. Put your body and soul in some kind of stasis though. Your soul stopped leaking out of your body.”

Blinking in surprise, Tord glanced down at his chest, half expecting to see some kind of hole with part of a Soul-Eater-style soul sticking out. “Do I have less soul now?”

Pausing the demon abruptly shifted to his half demon state and observed the energies in the room. Sprite, the tangy edible glitter, and such an absurd amount of cinnamon he had to fight down a coughing fit. “Nope,” Tom spoke with a strangled voice. “You’re completely back to normal levels.”

Tord preened at the attention and the statement that could be construed as a compliment if he twisted it around in his head enough.

“So, what? One metric ton of cinnamon?” Edd joked.

Frowning, the revolutionary tilted his head. “Cinnamon? You said my soul was _lethal_.” He’d been delighted at the information, assuming his very being was some kind of arsenic, cyanide, and hemlock. Poisonous, deadly, _Tord_. 

“I mean, it’s _a lot_ of cinnamon,” Tom shrugged. “Enough to kill an elephant.”

The door slammed open, catching the attention of everyone in the room. In the doorway stood Pat, still holding a cup to his ear, and Paul. Clearing his throat, Pat gently set the cup on the floor next to him. “Hello.”

“Well, first of all, we record literally all of the conversations had in my presence,” Tord spoke, ignoring the greeting. “There was no need for you to use a cup to listen through the door. You have remote access to the audio logs, even those being recorded in realtime.”

Pat shrugged. “I mean, I like the classics.”

Tord raised a single eyebrow in response. “Okay. Now that we’ve covered that, to what do we owe the pleasure of your sudden and hardly unexpected arrival?”

Immediately the soldiers redirected their attention to Tom. “So, our great and glorious leader’s soul tastes like cinnamon?”

The humonster nodded. “A shit ton of cinnamon. Yeah.”

“Would it be fair to say,” Pat paused for a long moment, making eye contact with everyone in the room (including Ringo), “that our oh so great, glorious, and magnanimous leader is a _spice girl_?”

Edd immediately sputtered out a shock of laughter.

Tom tilted his head to the side ever so slightly. “This is when I break it to you that Paul’s soul is pure salt and your own soul is some powerfully fragrant lemongrass.”

Pat froze in shock, his arm gripping the sleeve of Paul’s uniform with vicious intensity. “ _Oh my god. We’re the **spice girls**!_ ” He vigorously shook his lover. “Okay, okay. There are five spice girls. Between Red Leader, you, and I, we’ve got three.” He whipped his head around to look at the humonster. “Does anyone else in this room have a spice-flavored soul?”

“I mean,” Edd hummed, “Matt’s soul tastes like edible glitter and that’s, like, a visual spice.”

“Ginger spice!” Pat shouted while pointing at Matt. “And I’ve got dibs on being Baby Spice.”

“I feel like this is behavior we shouldn’t be encouraging,” Tom said.

“Tord’s gotta be Scary Spice, right?” Edd asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know literally NOTHING about the Spice Girls. I had to google everything about them for this chapter. I also ended up taking a Buzzfeed quiz so, apparently, I'm Scary Spice. Important things to know, I guess.


	20. Breaking Tom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And within a few minutes, The Spice Girls: Reborn (TM) is disbanded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait. I've been running around all summer visiting family and preparing for a convention. Now it's time to go back to my campus town and get a job so I'll have lots of time I'll want to distract myself during which I can work on my fanfics.

“How does a tour of the compound sound?” Tord asked jovially as he forced himself out of his hospital bed. His side screeched in pain but he ignored it in favor of shooting the group amassed in his room a disarming grin.

Matt and Edd both squealed in delight before the brunette clapped his hands over his mouth and glared at the ground, trying to look disinterested. Tom frowned. “No thanks,” the humonster declared. “They’ll pass.” Immediately he was met with the loud whining of Matt and the concealed pouting of Edd. “He wasn’t actually going to give you a tour. He wants to kill Matt because he’s stupid.”

Edd squinted in confusion. “Wait-- Tord wants to kill Matt because Tord is stupid or Tord wants to kill Matt because Matt is stupid?”

“Yes,” Tom answered plainly.

“Ha!” The ginger declared proudly. Pointing at Pat, he laughed triumphantly. “He said you’re stupid!”

“It’s all well and good,” Pat decided. “We wouldn’t have time for it anyway; we’re going to be far too busy practicing! C’mon, spice girls! I’ve got the perfect cover song we can rehearse!” Pat marched out of the room alone while everyone else just watched him go. After a minute he popped his head back in and looked around. “Are we not doing this? I really felt like we were actually going to do it.”

“No,” Tord answered.

“Really? But think of all the great things it could do for morale!” Pat protested.

“Paul,” tord said sharply, “please remove your man child from my vicinity immediately.”

“Aye aye, cap’n,” Paul responded as he hooked an arm around Pat’s shoulders and pulled him out of the room.

“Such professionals,” Edd said sarcastically, “no wonder the world fears the bread army.”

“ _Red_ ,” Tord corrected with a hiss. “And we’ve kind of got an incredibly powerful _shadow demon that swallows back souls like--_ ”

“Like he has no gag reflex!” Pat shouted from down the hall.

Tord slapped a hand to his face and Tom raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Utterly terrifying,” Edd said with a grin.

“Ooooh!” Matt chirped from beside the brunette. “Shiny!” The ginger man reached into a biohazardous waste basket for some syringes. Edd quickly slapped Matt’s hands away from the used needles and pulled him towards the door.

“Tom, why don’t you show us around the compound? You can show us stuff that isn’t booby trapped,” Edd struggled to say as he kept a squirming Matt away from all the needles.

“First stop is going to be where we keep the spare uniforms,” Tom said, nodding to the two mens’ rather lacking state of dress. Edd realized that the hoodie he’d been wearing was riding up and released Matt so he could pull the hem back down. Matt, who’d been throwing all of his weight into his escape attempts from Edd’s grasp, quickly smacked face first against the linoleum floor with the blanket he’d brandished twisted more around his legs than anything else. Tord pouted as the trio left the room, leaving him alone. _How was it he’d seen everyone but **Tom** naked?_ A loud meow caught the Red Leader’s attention. Ringo sat at the edge of his bed with his striped tail haughtily swaying back and forth. _Not quite alone then._

“Have you seen Tom naked?” The man couldn’t help but ask. Ringo stared at him silently, judging him. Tord frowned.

-

Tom lead Edd and Matt out of the laundry department with the two now in garb that wouldn’t get them arrested for public indecency. Edd wore a standard infantry soldier’s uniform but with the jacket tied around his waist. Matt somehow found a high ranking officer’s uniform, covered in shiny and dangling tassels, the colors of which had bled in the wash and turned the whole thing a tie dye gradient of purples.

“How about food?” Tom asked as he pulled his blue hoodie back over his head. “The mess hall’s this way.” As they navigated the corridors, many soldiers stepped out of the trio’s path and saluted the humonster as he walked past. Edd and Matt heard the excited whispers the soldiers shared about _the Blue Leader’s_ exploits once Tom had passed. The two shared a glance before returning their gaze to Tom’s back. It wasn’t long before they arrived at a large cafeteria-like area filled to the brim with rambunctious noise and laughter. It fell completely silent in a moment once the soldiers noticed the Brit in their presence. They all stood from their seats and saluted the possessed man. With a sigh, Tom waved his arm and the crowd sat down again although they remained largely silent. Edd and Matt could feel all eyes on them or, rather, on Tom as they made their way through the line picking up biodegradable and recycled plates (what’s the point in world domination if you weren’t going to maintain it?) and food. By the time the three sat down at an empty table to eat, the eerie silence had shaken Edd and Matt to the core. They heard a throat clear and the trio looked up to see a tall, rather stern looking black woman standing at the end of their table. Her uniform bespoke her rank, fairly high although not in Tord’s close circle, and her unfailingly perfect posture and menacing gaze assured the three that she’d earned her rank through discipline, hard work, and a fair amount of bloodshed.

“Sir,” her voice was tight and controlled as she moved her gaze to Tom. “Last week you saved my little brother.” They realized a large black man had been almost cowering behind her. It’d been hard to notice him when she had such a commanding presence. “Thank you,” she said simply before saluting the humonster. Behind her, her brother scrambled to salute him as well.

“Thank you so much,” he said in a rather quiet tone. “We thought we were done for. Carla’s wife, Dana, has a baby on the way and Carla thought for sure she was never going to get to see her baby. You’d changed that, sir.”

Another soldier joined the two at the table brandishing his phone. “Speaking of, the baby was just born! Carla sent pictures!” He slid the phone to Tom, showing a photo of a freckled woman smiling large with a tiny baby in her arms.

“That baby has both their parents because of you, I still have my brother because of you, and so many others owe you their lives, and we are so grateful. Sir,” the woman paused making direct eye contact with the flushed humonster. “Thank you.”

Tom was speechless as a bonafide parade of soldiers moved past his table, thanking him for what he’d done. He normally went about his days with an incredibly muted sense of emotion. It was maybe a little dull, but his life was already plenty exciting, and he was content in his apathy. Being apathetic meant he could shrug off every swing the world took at him. After all, you can’t be hurt if you act like you feel no pain. Needless to say, all this heartfelt, genuine positive reinforcement, affirmation, and appreciation being heaped onto him was kind of overloading his atrophied emotional capabilities. By the time the trio had left the mess hall, Tom was a dazed, blushing, and bumbling mess. Edd and Matt watched Tom almost slam into the door to Tord’s recovery room before managing to instead open it so they could enter.

Tord, upon seeing a red faced and wide eye(socket)’d Tom stumble into his room, had the completely natural reaction of using the hidden camera in his arm to take approximately two dozen pictures.

As Edd stepped back into the room, he glanced around curiously. “Did anyone else just hear something like a bunch of camera shutters?” Tord huffed and glared at his arm.

_What kind of hidden **digital** camera makes shutter sounds?_

“Nope,” he answered from his bed. “No one took any pictures.”

“Bunny just took a whole bunch,” an unfamiliar voice answered. Startled, Edd looked around the room but saw no one except Tom, Matt, Tord, and Ringo.

Putting a hand up to his two large spikes of hair, Tord responded to the voice with an indignant whine. “I told you! They’re horns, not ears!”

“I calls it like I sees it.” Holy fuck the voice was coming from _Ringo_. “And I sees ears.”

“Tord,” Edd asked with wide eyes, “did you just Doug the dog from _Up_ my cat?”

Tord and Ringo shared a glance. “Remember our deal,” Tord hissed.

“I know, I know. Ixnay on the ushcray,” Ringo responded.

“Yes,” Tord answered, turning back to Edd. “You’ve got a talking cat now. You’re welcome.”

“Honestly, while I appreciate this, I doubt they do. Now it’s probably super weird because sometimes I walk in on them masturbating and they just keep going ‘cause they figure _whatever_ , a cat ain’t gonna judge-- which I don’t. But humans are such weird prudes about it, they’re probably gonna break out because I can talk about it and,” he trailed off at the looks on his audience’s faces. Edd and Matt were horrified, Tom was still mentally rebooting from the emotional overload, and Tord was giving him such big, pleading kitten eyes. Sighing, he flicked his tail with annoyance. “No, I haven’t seen _him_ do it.” Tord frowned and sat back, losing interest. Ringo hopped off the bed and sniffed Edd’s leg before butting his head against it and rubbing himself against the limb. “Ay, the hell? Why don’t you smell like me? Jeez, I leave you alone for fifteen minutes and you come smelling like a freakin’ perfume parlor. Anyway, we should go home now. I need to make sure no one’s decided to enter my territory while we were on this little field trip.”

“I’ll arrange for a chopper,” Tord said, realizing Tom was basically sleep walking and wouldn’t be any fun until he’d worked through whatever had stunned him so heavily. Tord would have to review some security footage later to figure out what caused the Brit to lose his cool so thoroughly.


	21. Emotional Intelligence is Overrated Anyway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PLACE YOUR BETS!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead!
> 
> I was majorly depressed for a while and when I tried to talk to a therapist about it, he said that while my semantic/factual intelligence is incredibly robust, like a body builder's arm, my emotional intelligence is like a floppy little baby arm.

“Tom?” Edd poked his head into the eyeless man’s bedroom. Said man was lying on the floor of the room with his limbs akimbo and empty gaze directed up at the ceiling. “Hey there,” the brunette called awkwardly shuffling into the room. “So,” he trailed off as his gaze darted around the room. Chewing on his lip, Edd pulled at the hem of his hoodie. “Do you want to talk?

The humonster huffed out a long sigh but didn’t move to look at Edd. “I’d rather not. Thanks.”

Edd groaned. “Isn’t this exact thing the problem though? You’re always ignoring your emotions, never talking about them, pretending you don’t have any-- that’s exactly what put you in this situation. You’re overloaded. All the feelings bubbling inside are building up and you _need_ to release the pressure so _talk to me_.”

Tom grumbled and rolled onto his side so he wouldn't have to look at his friends earnest expression. Edd was being ridiculous. Tom wasn't ignoring anything. He really didn't have any emotions. The humonster definitely didn't feel like his skull and chest were pressure cookers racing to see which could get the Brit to pop first-- because he didn't feel anything. Emotions are dumb.

“Emotions aren't dumb,” Edd answered with a frown, crossing his arms. Furrowing his brows, Tom wondered if he'd been speaking aloud. Only his mouth and throat felt too much like concrete to have been functioning, which meant that Edd must be a mind reader. 

“Ayo,” a voice called from the hall. “My human has been out got a while so I'm here to make sure he isn't getting in any trouble. What's happening?” Ringo strolled into the room with his tail proudly swaying. Upon spotting the sprawled out person on the ground, he called out, “Dibs!” Vaulting atop Tom's form, the cat quickly curled up on top of his new bed.

“Holy shit, my cat can talk,” Edd whispered, caught in the wonder of the moment before snapping back to the matter at hand. “You can't go your entire life pretending to be an immovable, emotionless robot.”

_I can if my entire life isn't that long to begin with_ , Tom thought smugly. Actually, wait. **Shit.** What did getting possessed do to his life span? The Brit had always assumed he'd be on his last legs by 35 and long gone at 40, but there was no knowing what his body would do over time now. Would he still age at a normal rate? Would he age at all? Oh, holy Jesus fuck, what if he was immortal now? 

Tom did not want to be immortal. He’d always been of the opinion that the one go-around on the fucked up ride of life was enough. Being immortal would mean watching everything-- time, society, his friends’ lives-- flash by him. He’d be forcefully ejected from the flow of humanity and become nothing but a witness to the journey of humankind. He would, impossibly, become even more devoid of purpose. The potential horror of eternity combined with all the other stressors straining Tom’s fragile emotional capacity caused a complete shut down.

Taking a deep breath in, Tom let his eyelids slip shut and focused on the simplicity of the all consuming darkness he saw and the warm pressure of the cat atop him.

Meanwhile,Tord angrily scrubbed at his chin as he regarded the video footage of soldiers approaching Tom in the mess hall. Watching the humonster’s increasingly stiff posture, it was hard to not immediately summon the possessed man so that Tord could just-- _ugh_. The object of his arguable obsession was clearly overwhelmed by the candid emotions the soldiers were showering him with. Obviously, the humonster was emotionally avoidant to say the least. Tord was self aware enough to recognize himself as the pot calling the kettle black. The man had never claimed to be a paragon of emotional intelligence, but he was relatively sure his grasp on emotions other than anger, desire, and ambition was tenuous at best. He largely found himself too busy to waste time attending to emotions that didn’t help him further his cause. However, in the case of Tom, these neglected facets of his emotions could become a power tool in his favor. To think emotional vulnerability could be weaponized. And, honestly, the more unexpected things Tord got to weaponize in a day, the better his day was.

Tom was clearly terrible with confronting emotions. He was easily overpowered, shutting down and becoming oh so _vulnerable_. At this point in his attempts to woo the humonster, the most strategic move Tord could make might be to simply lay all the cards on the table. It would catch the Brit off guard, possibly creating an opening for Tord to strike.

“Oh great and powerful Red Leader, sir,” a vice called from the hall before Pat burst into the room. “I have a bet going with some soldiers on how you flirt.”

“He has an unfair advantage, considering he’s been privy to your interactions with Tom,” Paul chimed in.

“Easy money!” Pat interrupted.

“So, now we’re here to get confirmation so that Pat can successfully scam your soldiers.” Paul finished dryly.

“With that said,” Pat announced as he pulled a clipboard out from behind his back with a flourish. Loudly clicking a ball point pen five times, the man cleared his throat before leveling his leader with a stoic stare. “Would you describe yourself as a seme or uke?”

A long moment of silence passed between the men before Tord stood from his seat. “Get the fuck out before I go full Stalin on Trotsky on you.”

“I know you know what these words mean! You’re a connoisseur of hentai! So, just confirm what I already know,” Pat responded, desperately fighting to keep a grin off his face.

“I hope you already have a flight to Mexico booked because there is an ice pick in my desk that would look lovely lodged into your skull.” Tord hissed.

“Ice pick,” Pat hummed, “is that innuendo? I’m flattered but taken. You should try that line on Tom.”

“Paul, I’m sorry for your loss,” Tord said slowly. “He died young. It was such a tragic accident. When were you thinking of hosting Pat’s funeral?”

With a sigh, Paul folded his arms across his chest. “I have a feeling I should be asking you that.”

“It’ll be done by the end of the week. Plenty of time to prepare yourself mentally. I’ll make sure it isn’t messy. I know you hate having to clean up after Pat, I’d hate for that to be your last memory of him.”

Pat chuckled and shrunk a little behind Paul. “Sometimes, it can be difficult to tell when you’re joking.” Both Tord and Paul stared blankly at the cowering soldier. “Ha,” Pat laughed weakly, “ha.” Glancing back down at his clipboard, the man tugged on the back of Paul’s uniform. “We should go do our soldier duty thingies.” With that, the pair left their leader to his own business.

“Smooth recovery,” Paul teased, “but do you think you’ve escaped with your life?”

“I’ll live to see next week,” Pat said confidently, if only to assure himself. “The real question,” he continued, “is how much sweet, sweet cash am I going to win from the lovepool.”  
“None without Tord’s confirmation,” Paul answered.

“Oh, he’ll want to answer,” Pat replied with a conspiratorial chuckle. “Some of the stuff people claimed he’d do,” his eyes skated down the clipboard’s contents. “He’s going to want to clear those up real fast.”

Paul glanced at the clipboard. “Wow, there are a surprising amount of votes for him being a tsundere.”

“Could you imagine?” Pat asked wistfully. “If he was trying to win over Tom but was a tsundere?”

“I didn’t kidnap you because I like you or anything, ba-bakka,” Paul said monotonously.

“Another guess is the whole _aggressive powerful man with a kind public persona but a cruel underlying personality forcibly pulls another person into a secret relationship with him, emphasizing the sexual relationship first and fighting tooth and nail to not become emotionally attached to them_ ,” Pat read aloud.

“That’s a very long name for what sounds an awful lot like the average sexual predator,” Paul hummed.

“She insisted it was a trope that kept showing up in the smutty k-dramas she was watching,” Pat answered.

“Ah,” Paul intoned as he pointed at a spot on the clipboard. “There’s your bet.” His eyes rapidly skimmed the text. “Wow, that is incredibly and needlessly specific.”

“So specific that no one else could possibly qualify to win the pot with me,” Pat cheered.

“So petty,” Paul hummed.

“You know you love it,” Pat teased.

“Yep,” Paul agreed.

Immediately, Pat’s face went up in flames. “Wh-what? What the crap did you just say to me,” he stuttered out, “idiot!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, audience interaction time, my dear readers.  
> When I said "PLACE YOUR BETS" I meant it literally! Seriously, you are all now soldiers taking part in Pat's Love Pool. You can say something outrageous to freak out Tord, you can try to get at Pat's incredibly specific answer, or, honestly, just do whatever you want. I genuinely will be integrating as many as possible into future chapters. So, pretty please, PLACE YOUR BETS.  
> Just think how sad Pat will be if no one takes place in the betting. He won't have anyone he won money from.


End file.
